


Tremble, Duck & Weave

by OwlEspresso



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, F/M, Love at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsession, Urianger being Weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: It's a cold night when Aymeric de Borel trims the unnecessary fat from Ishgard's governing body and seizes that power for himself, but the day that brings you into the city is surprisingly warm.Reader is the Warrior of Light. This is an AU.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Reader, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Estinien Wyrmblood/Reader, Haurchefant Greystone/Reader, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Urianger Augurelt/Reader, Urianger Augurelt/Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 27
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my tumblr, which can be found [here.](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/)

The archbishop summons him at an unfathomable time of night. The office is dimly lit, the wrinkles of the man’s gaunt face illuminated by a lamp rested in the corner of his room. The door creaks as it gently clicks closed behind him. He looks the same as ever, beard and face much too long, eyes sunken. Aymeric, in the back of his mind, wonders if he too will look this way, when age drains him of his beauty like the dark of night drags the sun below the horizon.

“Aymeric,” Thordan VII smiles and his face shifts grossly with it. He was never meant to smile, Aymeric realizes for the umpteenth time, “Mine apologies for calling for you at this time of night.”

“It is no trouble at all, Father,” he stands spine straight, shoulders squared, expression soft but impassive. How he’s been carefully molded and taught to stand, to look, to be, “I have faith that this matter is of the utmost importance. My sleep can wait.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Thordan VII replies, as though he doesn’t constantly demand it, “We’ve received news from Coerthas—” he erupts into a string of spluttering coughs that he muffles first into his hand, and then into his sleeves. The bitter cold has never done him any favors. Especially not now, when it’s started settling in his bones and tearing its teeth into his soft, wrinkly hide, “The Warrior of Light is on their way to the city gates.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A meeting they attended with their cohorts in Ul’dah went awry. From what I understand, a military coup or something of the sort was staged and they were caught in the crossfire, injured near terribly. They are accompanied by an elezen boy named Alphinaud. I believe you’ve met him? Child of Louisoix, member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. They are coming to seek succor. They’ve proven to be our shield against the Dravanians, so I am granting them asylum,” that made Aymeric’s eyebrows raise. He had turned in reports on his meetings with the vaunted Warrior and their companion, but never had he expected his father to actually read them.

Never had he expected his father to pay attention to something he had painstakingly tracked and hand crafted.

“I presume you would ask me to give them shelter?” his meetings with you had always been between times of great strife and the subject matter usually revolved around whatever opponents you would be thrown at next. As far as he was concerned, it was a relationship that revolved purely around business.

You were used as one might wield a spear or sword, tossed in the way of whatever monster or god saw fit to threaten Eorzea’s city states. It was a pitiful existence, he believed, to be used so mercilessly by people who couldn’t defend themselves or do anything to assist you.

“Heavens no,” Thordan VII huffs in amusement, “The Fortemps bastard has their full trust and will be taking care of them. I wish for you to keep a careful watch on them. The Scions are renowned for their campaigns against our Ascian allies, and I will not have them get in the way of the plans I have labored over since I took up the honorable position of archbishop.”

“Ah,” Aymeric says, recalling the dozens of meetings where those ominous, robed figures flanked his father on either side, wearing their crimson masks and wry, smug smiles, “Is that truly wise? I’m sure you’re aware of the Ascians… unfortunate track record with the way they treat their allies. The Garlean’s Baelsar is testament to that.”

His voice is smooth and stable. His gaze is steeled as it always is when he steps foot inside here, this office which feels more like a gladiator’s arena than an office. Yet, his stomach tosses and turns because never has he dared to argue with his father. His father, who has towered like a giant over him for his entire life. It’s not something he regrets, not even as silence lapses between them and fills the air.

“Should all go according to plan, no longer will we need to live in fear of them,” Thordan says slowly, exploratively, “All I do is in the name of Ishgard’s liberation, Aymeric. I thought you would have understood that by now.”

“I understand you enough to know that you are… overestimating yourself,” the words claw themselves out of Aymeric’s throat, his mouth, and they feel like sandpaper. 

Then Thordan VII’s eyebrows nettle into a scowl at his meager defiance. It makes his blood boil. How long has his father gone unchallenged? How long have his suggestions and commands only been met with a chorus of resounding yeses? 

“I’ll not hear that from the pitiful welp I raised, the child who has never stood in my shoes,” his voice raises, face gnarled with offense. His calm, patient veneer finally lapses, exposing the ugly, festering mess that lays underneath his skin. Long has Aymeric waited to agitate him this way, and the satisfaction outweighs the trepidation of breaking free from all he’s ever known.

The floorboards behind Thordan’s desk creak. The aged elezen jolts and whips around, another series of coughs rattling his form as a figure, clad in inky black and deep crimsons steps into the dim light. The newcomer clutches a slender, freshly-sharpened glass. The tangy scent of blood and metal hits the air.

“Bold words for a man within striking distance,” Estinien’s voice rumbles deep and low, armor clanking with each slow, purposeful step.

“What is the meaning of this!?’ Thordan VII grips the arms of his chair as he thrusts himself to his feet, stumbling, hands resting flat against the table’s surface as he whirls around and attempts to scramble to the side. His eyes are wide, the fluster that had dusted his cheeks twisted into something terrified. The visage of a cornered animal.

Aymeric’s eyelids lower as he feels his idee fixe finally culminating. He sees himself, briefly, in lessons on etiquette and literature and all subjects in between. He sees himself knocked to the ground for the umpteenth time as he spars, his father staring down at him from across the courtyard, perched on the marble stairs with nothing in his eyes. He recalls a lifetime of pressure, of watching his father make poor life choices and being told what he should be rather than receiving praise for what he already was.

“You were there for the citizens of Ishgard when they needed you,” he begins and tries to find some words to convey the macabre collage of emotions and experiences, but ultimately fails. His words will never reach Thordan VII, his father, in the way he wants them to, “But now they require someone with a more delicate and refined touch. They need me, father, and you’re standing in the way.”

Thordan VII spits out a bitter laugh that descends into a deep, wailing cough, stumbling over his own ornate robes as Estinien backs him into a corner. Swathes of red and black aether swell around the dragoon’s form, a fantastic phantasmagoria that’s never failed to fascinate Aymeric.

“If you think I’ll just stand idly by and—” Thordan’s beady eyes stare up, his fear betraying him. Estinien smells it and his nostrils flare.

“I know,” Aymeric says and Estinien shoves his lance forward. Simultaneously, as though their minds are perfectly wound together and connected. The metal eats into and slices clean through the flesh. He briefly recalls watching a local butcher dismember a recently-slain boar whilst his father’s servants spoke to a merchant, eyes wide with awe and fascination as living matter was broken down into subsistence.

Blood splatters against the polished wood, fortunately missing the carpet. Aymeric remembers the price of that carpet.

“Beautiful work, Estinien,” he says softly, stepping over to Thordan VII’s body and kneeling. His palm lights with sacred blue energy as he works to seal the incision that the spear had so accurately made, the corpse clean of the evidence.

The archbishop’s eyes are still wide with fear. There is nothing better Aymeric would like than for as many people as possible to know the man had been helpless in his last moments, but it won’t do to have suspicion cast upon them. He does his father a final favor and shuts his eyes for him, just as Estinien sweeps back across the floor, to the window here he had entered. A frosty breeze sweeps into the room as Aymeric bundles Thordan VII’s body in his arms.

“The evening watch should be changing by now. They won’t see you,” he informs his companion helpfully, rewarded with a grunt as the dragoon heaves himself over the sill and jumps into the night sky, leaving not a trace behind him. Fitting. Estinien has never cared for their quibbling little politics. He answers to whoever promises to sate the hunger of his steel, to whoever waters his crops with draconic blood. 

When he leaves, he takes his warmth with him. Silence settles over the room. He feels as fragile and trembling as the icicles which cling to the gutters.

He could linger in this space, Aymeric realizes, cling onto the normality that existed a mere half-hour ago. He could pretend Thordan’s responsibilities hadn’t just been hoisted upon his shoulders, allow his status to stand still if only for a precious, few moments.

But Ishgard is outside these gold glazed halls and he won’t keep them waiting for another moment. He nudges the door open with his arm and steps into the corridor, seeking the first chirurgeon he can flag down.

The news of Thordan VII’s death floods the streets mere hours later. Perished due to the sickness that had held him in its clutches for the past sixth months. He fought valiantly against the virus until he could no longer, and left ser Aymeric de Borel, his sole son, as his heir.

The sunlight streams in through the window, the curtains bunched to their sides.

He had slept a mere four hours, barely able to shake off the clinomania in order to clamber out of his bed. Nobles and servants flanked him left and right, the entire city sent into a buzz over the news of his ascension. Only now, when the sun was beginning to touch the city, did he get a moment of peace.

“Milord?” or not. He opened his eyes to look at the timid servant who peered into the room. The meager sunlight caught off her flaxen hair, which was tied into a tight bun. Stray strands dipped down to her forehead, “The Warrior of Light is here, and they are… grievously wounded. Several chirurgeons—”

“Have ser Augurelt attend to them personally,” he ordered, voice gentle yet resolute. She blinked, but nodded quickly and vanished, gently shutting the door behind them with a resounding “yes sir!” 

Again, he was left to his silence. He shut his eyes, willing the tension of the night and fear of the upcoming day away for just a moment. Having Ishgard’s head astrologian tend to your wounds would send a message to the citizenry and the nobility who were aware of your presence. You were a valuable resource, an individual worth protecting. He would not see you harmed whilst within the city’s walls.

And anyone who defied that firm, incredible message would have to answer to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ao3 user Nidvaller for beta reading Urianger's section of this chapter. You were a huge help.

Urianger hath read his fair share of fantastical prose—legends and stories that flaunt the true meanings of love, dramas that speak of star-crossed paramours and the bonds that gyve them. He hath combed through texts, rigorously reached the span of human emotion.

He was not wont to believe in such far fetched tales, with their extravagant exaggerations and reliance on worn tropes.

At least, till this very moment.

His wiry fingers trembled as they pressed cotton to thy bloodstained skin, clearing the refuse away from thy most immaculate form. Never before had he witnessed such incredible majesty. Thou art an incredible creation, as though Halone had sculpted thee with all the motherly love in the world, her very image.

His traitorous heart thumped in his chest like the frantic beating of a bird’s clipped wings against its cage. When the lord commander besought him unto thyside, he had expected to do nothing more than see to thy wounds—but this feeling—he felt as though he had been striped across the face.

He knew thy name—was well aware of thy exploits, but now he found himself seized by the need to know everything about you. The fresh, morning sun streamed in through the wide, steep window, shedding light unto thy glorious, bruised, beaten form. 

He loved thee, he realized, utterly stricken. Despite having never heard a blessed word from thy lips, despite having never been fortunate enough to encounter thee before.

Why? How? 

“The reports we’ve received thus far indicate that there was an ambush at the Ul’dahn banquet. The sultana was most regrettably poisoned, the blame cast onto the Warrior,” the lord commander loomed by the door, a towering presence despite the distance between them.

“That is incredibly unfortunate, given our current position,” Urianger could scarcely manage to work, admire thine sleeping face and pay attention to Aymeric’s incessant commentary all at the same time.

Thou art ethereal, limelit so extravagantly, mottled with the sweetest of crimsons and purples, a canvas covered in burgeoning blooms. His nimble fingers wrought tirelessly, laying antiseptics, salves and only the finest of Ishgardian-spun gauze athwart thy skin. His hands began to emit a pale, viridescent glow, sanative energy flowing into thy body. Thy injuries began to mend, skin sewing back together.

Whilst relieved to know thou wert well on the way to recovery, he could not help but grieve for the red sheen. There was no doubt that thou hadst utterly gorgonized him, snatched his heart free from his chest.

“They will be hale and hearty within the next sennight.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Urianger,” Aymeric said, “We are most fortunate to have your talents at our disposal,” the door to the office nudged open, the lord commander calling a few, brief orders to the guards abreast the entrance. It all fell into background noise, flimsy and frail in comparison to thee.

Shame flushed his chilled skin as his fingers trender brushed across thine cheek, fervent heat shooting up his spine. He hovered twixt guilt and satisfaction, the conflict brewing threatening to overbrim his frail, mortal disposition.

What kind of man was he? To fall so deeply into infatuation with someone so bloodied at first sight? He retracted his touches as though scalded at the sound of footsteps hurrying in their direction. He felt as though a nitling, a blundering, repulsive fool.

Had he found pleasure in thy vulnerability? The thought nearly topped him as he stumbled from his stool. This was wrong, surely. Perhaps a sudden sickness had planted itself in his weary mind, his resistances weak after endless nights of sleepless study.

The guards strolled into the study, prepared to steal thee away. He hadst anticipated this, aye, but was woefully unprepared for the grief that shook him at the prospect. Thou wouldst only be down the corridor, but a desperate desire to remain as close as humanly possible to thee shook him to his very foundation, causing cold sweet to erupt across his clammy skin.

“I shall endeavor to make room in mine schedule for a visit before the day’s end. Her aether is severely depleted. Twould be wise to ensure the alchemists prepare a tincture to restore her supply,” the words felt like—no, they were sin on his lips, lies manifested as a poor excuse to once again behold thine godly visage. 

Is this what infatuation does to good men? Turns them from honest denizens to scheming miscreants?

“I’ll see to it immediately and have it delivered to you post-haste,” Aymeric’s full lips curled into a fond smile, “I’m entrusting her care to you for the foreseeable future, Urianger. Ensure she receives a warm, hospitable welcome. We have use for her talents,” his vibrant gaze swept over the room, before returning to the astrologian.

Ah. The lord commander intended to use thee for his own purposes. As repulsed as any other man might have been, Urianger could not find fault with that plan. 

It ensured that you would remain within the city’s walls and—oh heavens, what hath he become?

He strode over to the shelves at the back of the office, beginning to sort through potions and elixirs and medical supplies left long in disarray.

“Of course. Thou canst dependth on me, lord commander,” he set about reorganizing the cluttering of bottles on the top shelf first, carefully categorizing each one by use. It had been shamefully long since he had last house kept, and it currently served as a flawless excuse to not look the other man in the eyes.

Had de Borel seen the way in which he caressed thee? His stomach dropped at the thought.

“As much as I would like to stay and chat, I’m afraid I am needed elsewhere. Everywhere, perhaps. Thordan has left quite the workload for me,” the lord commander gave a laugh most hollow. The creak of the door signified the beginning of his departure.

Urianger’s hands trembled as he separated the Elixirs and Potions, Potions of various effects and caliber and color. He grimaces as he beholds the layer of dust that’s settled on every shelf.

“Farewell and best of luck to thee,” Urianger said.

The door clicked shut, the noise a lonely echo down the hall.

He listened keenly as the lord commander’s footsteps grew quieter and quieter. His pulse thudded in his ears, stomach in his throat. Only when silence reigned true did he press his back to the wall and slide to the polished wooden floor, cradling his head in his hands. It felt as though his world had stopped spinning on its axis, as though the poles had been knocked free from their fixed position, the glove spinning freely through the universe.

“Oh heavens above,” he moaned, begged as he tilted his head back, staring up at the domed ceiling, “What curse hath been cast upon my weary soul?”

\------

Estinien has always seen it. The red that lines and freely runs through the streets—he sees it, even if the idle citizenry can’t. 

Perhaps it’s the doing of Nidhogg’s eye which has long rested in the cavity of his chest, replacing the human crimson of his blood with black, draconic ichor. Perhaps it's several generations of Midgardsormer’s spawn showing him what they see when they gaze upon Ishgard’s mighty towers. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care to find out. The young fool he had been during his days at the academy would balk at the sight of him now.

The crimson horns arch from his skull, the skin of his arms dyed inky black, patches of smooth scale decorating his body. The glamors hide it from everyone besides himself, a cruel reminder of what he is and what he once was.

“I think they’re amazing,” that gaudy fool, that Fortemps bastard, said to him once, face swollen in a gawsy grin.

His fingers curl around the frigid steel of his lance. The high winds batter him atop his perch, a small, domed ledge jutting from one of the city’s tallest towers. The inky blacks and reds of his armor would stand out stark from the dull Ishgardian masonry.

Across from him, a statue of Halone nestles between the other intricate stoneworks, her expression twisted with desperation, a feeble hand outstretched in his direction.

How ironic.

Her face begins to shift the longer he looks at her. The soft, anguished lines of her brows furrow downwards, into a judgmental scowl, her lips open around words he cannot hear. But he knows she slings vile venom in his direction. He knows she is denouncing him, disowning him, spitting bile as tears of crimson bead at the corners of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks gone gaunt, dripping onto the street below.

A sudden wave of nausea mixed with rage knocks his gaze away, drifting below and to the side. It’s a fight to keep himself from snarling because his veins pulse with rage at his own hallucination and he knows the beast that lives inside him knows he does not belong here. It throws childish fantods everytime he rears a house of worship, makes the simple task of existing in Ishgard take herculean effort.

His numb gaze continues to travel along the wall across from him until it stops on a window, the blinds parted just enough for him to peer inside.

A familiar form hunches over an occupied bed. Urianger’s black robe dips low, giving Estinien’s keen gaze can make out each toned muscle and fine curve of the astrologian’s back. He’s tending to someone. The Warrior of Light, he realizes near immediately. Aymeric made a point to mention it that very morning. She had been severely injured, shuttled off into Urianger’s care as soon as she arrived.

An investment, Estinien understood, a weapon Aymeric hoped to use in the name of Ishgard. After all, who wouldn’t want the vaunted Warrior of Light at their disposal? It’s cruel, he understands well, to think of a fellow, sentient being in such a manner, but that is the cold reality in which they live.

But the way in which Urianger handles her is far from cold and clinical. The astrologian’s long fingers brush tenderly across the warrior’s cheek, the tenderness in his eyes reaching beyond mere professionalism. It’s an expression he’s never witnessed on the other man’s usually severe expression.

At that very moment, Estinien realizes he’s a voyeur, a miscreant witnessing a sclipism by one of Ishgard’s most renowned healers. 

The beast inside of him gives an interested, low croon at the pure sin of it. 

His blood pumps hot and rhapsodic in his veins, taking in the other man’s broad shoulders, imagining the downy softness of his hair. He imagines the shred of pale flesh underneath his sharpened claws, savors the vision of his teeth sinking into a slender neck.

No!

The man in him snarls. He crouches, leaps from his perch in a desperate bid to flee from the wretched pile of sin the monster created.

The streets are still dyed red, clumps of flesh and organs and scales, but no one else sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urianger was never a part of the Scions. At some point, he moved into Ishgard instead and has been there ever since.  
> He's an astrologian. He wears looser, more exposing clothes while inside and something more akin to his Heavensward disguise when outside.  
> He's getting wet and wild.  
> The tense change from Urianger's section to Estinien's is deliberate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to all the gamers out there.
> 
> Thank you to TenkeyLess & Nightmist for being such diligent and incredible betas. All of you at home should send them love and appreciation.

Your senses return to you in a sluggish crawl. First, it’s the invasive sunlight that creeps in through the window. Next, it’s the awful taste of sleep in your mouth. You groan in protest as the world drags you to wakefulness, the sheets twisting and shifting around your fidgeting form. It’s beyond tempting to roll back over and delve back into slumber, but hunger claws ravenous at your stomach, and—nearly every part of you aches.

_ Raubahn’s arm severs from his body, the crowd screams, the water splashes dank around your ankles. The musky sewer air burns the back of your throat as you leave your allies, your friends behind. _

The sheer force of the memories rattle your eyes open, lurching into a rigid, seated position. Where is Alphinaud? Tataru? The rest of the Scions? Your gaze shoots frantically around the unfamiliar chambers, fingers fisted tight in the blankets. It’s a bedroom, that much is plain. The mattress creaks as you begin to shift, inching towards the edge of the bed. Your muscles scream in protest, drawing your gaze down to the bandages that cover your body like patchwork.

Your escape had been hard-won. Even after emerging from the sewers, you’d been accosted by a patrol of soldiers. Though you managed to defeat them with Alphinaud’s assistance…

“Ah. I see thou hast awoken,” The door creaks open. A tall, broad elezen slips nimbly into the rooms, his dark robes swishing with each coordinated motion. The pale morning sunlight casts a vibrant sheen across his waves of grey hair. His gaze is tender as it lands on you, roaming your body up and down. “Take care not to strain thyself. Thine injuries wert most severe when thou wert delivered to me. I am Urianger Augurelt, an astrologian under the employ of the Holy See.”

A quick glance out the window is all it takes to confirm it. The grand spires of Ishgard grate against the cloudy, grey sky. The dull stonework and steel that makes up most of the city seems to blend together the longer you look, your mind fogged and disoriented.

Only when he clears his throat do you snap back from your discombobulated state. 

“Thank you. For helping me,” Thanking him is the least you can do, right? Still, you don’t relinquish your grip on the bunched blankets. Having something to clutch so tight helps soothe the anger and the grief. It’s an anchor to the physical while the mental is lost in a tumultuous storm of emotion. 

“My condolences,” his voice is a soothing balm and sympathy renders his expression something soft. He’s beautiful, really. He cuts a sharp figure, though his imposing stature is made elegant by the gentle swish and sway of his robes, inky black cloth with gold embroidery… the transparent, veil-like mask hides the lower half of his face, and you can’t help but wonder what his lips look like. “The guards who brought thee to mine chambers gave me a brief summary of the tragedy that befell thee. Rest assured that thou art safe here.” he strides to your bedside, placing a glass of water atop the mahogany nightstand. 

Not a moment passes before you’re reaching for it. Gods, how long has it been? The back of your throat is as dry as the Sagolii, sandpaper feeling soothed by the cool water you gulp so desperately. 

The muscles and bones of your arms whine with dull pain, left over from the terrible injuries you’ve suffered during your escape, as vicious and unnerving as the memories which accompany them.

“It will take thee at least a fortnite to heal from thy wounds. House Fortemps hath secured thee a place in the Holy See as their ward.”

“I…” It’s all too much to process. “What about the Scions?” The conversation slows to a stop as he carefully thinks over his answer, though his silence is all you need to know the verdict. Sudden nausea churns deep in your stomach, because you know. You were there. You heard the tunnel collapse. You watched Minfilia dash in the direction of the explosion. The allies you have come to know and treasure perished for your sake.

An aching coldness sweeps over you as your body curls in on itself, crushed. Alone, you realize. Alone. The support networks and bonds you’ve built ripped from your grasp in not even a bell’s work. Darkness envelops your vision as you bury your face in your knees, sobs beginning to rattle aching lungs. 

What’s the point in being the Warrior of Light if you can’t protect those who matter most to you?

A large hand settles on your shoulder, reminding you of Urianger’s hovering presence. Your throat is hoarse and slick all at the same time, tears smeared wet across your cheeks, leaving you feeling even worse. Your lips part around a pathetic little gasp, drawing a trembling breath deep into your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper and laugh all in one. “I probably don’t seem like a Warrior of Light, right now.”

“‘Tis no trouble,” Urianger insists, offering you a white kerchief. The fine fabric glistens underneath the spare rays of sun. You almost hesitate to sully it, but you wipe your face down and blow your nose in it anyways, too far gone to feign humility. 

“I can only imagine the depths of thou’s grief… but know this be a safe haven. Rest here as long as thou desirest.”

“Resting is the last thing I want to do right now,” you sigh. The grief, the doubt, the ‘what if’s’ press against you like a vice. You don’t completely believe it, still. That they’re gone. A part of you thinks perhaps Y’shtola or Thancred or any of the friends you’ve made along the way will walk through the door any moment, like nothing happened. But you know that’s not going to happen. That cannot happen. It’s that grim realization that spurs you into action. Your arms howl in agony as you press your hand to the mattress, pushing yourself out of bed.

The floor is cold against your bare feet. The plush robe you’re swaddled in shifts with the sudden movement, dangling over your shoulder to—

— _ to gift him a glimpse of thine exposed skin. Ne’r had he thought the day would arrive when a woman paralyzed him with her body alone, yet here he sat. _

_ The ethereal sight was snatched away before he could truly savor it. Overpowering was the temptation to beckon thee hither and plead for another showing, but nay. Surely such a woeful and pitiful display from a stranger would gain him naught. A quieter, delicate approach must needs do. _

_ He stood from his chair, hastening to your side. _

_ “Prithee, allow me to run thee a warm bath. Thou hast been deep in slumber since yest’rday. T’would be advisable to clean and redress thy wounds.” His gaze rested upon thee, soft and imploring. A brief silence hung in the air, during which his heart thrums so passionately in his ears, so voluminous that he might have missed thy nod of agreement had he not been so focused on thine lips. “A seamstress hand-crafted a new shirt and pair of slacks for thy to adorn, alongside the proper smallclothes.” _

_ He grasped the pile of garments from atop the drawers that rested against the far wall, delicately handing them to you. With great delight did he notice the petiteness of your hands, his heart set aflame at the difference in size between the both of you. _

_ With eagerness did he escort you to the bathing chambers, endeavoring to keep his mind from wandering to the expanse of skin and plane that laid beneath that loose robe. _

_ By his hand would your bond seed and propagate. _

As hesitant as you are to trust a man you’ve just met, you allow Urianger to escort you to the bathroom. He slows his pace for your sake, the brief walk giving you a glimpse at the rest of his home… or at least just one, sprawling floor comprised of—well, you don’t get a look inside any of the rooms. The number of ornate doors that line the corridor on either side speak to his wealth and status.

“Forgive me,” he says as you reach the end of the corridor. His cheeks flush light pink, touching the tips of his ears. He doesn’t even look at you as he wraps a massive hand around the brass doorknob, tugging it open. “Dost thou require assistance disrobing?”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him with a small smile. His modesty is likely a standard among Ishgardian society, but you find it sweet regardless. 

The bathroom is wide open and lavish. White tile spans across the floor. The sink is surrounded by a marble countertop and the faucet shines near gold in the pale sunlight. Tiny windows are placed up high, so even the most determined of lechers can’t catch a glimpse inside.

“Thank you, Urianger.” You can’t even begin to repay his hospitality, and while you hate to impose on him further… “I might need your help with rebandaging, though.”

“Of course,” he nods. Perhaps, after you heal and get back on your feet, you’ll be able to repay the incredible kindness he’s shown. For now, all you can do is step inside to the waiting bath. “I shall retrieve the necessary supplies while thou bathes. Take as long as thou require.”

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving you to simple silence and the thoughts that accompany it. Plush fabric slides down your skin as you disrobe, and you take care to drape it over a rack affixed to the wall. Your borrowed raiment is a deep, inky black that shimmers underneath the light, several sizes too large for you. You realize it likely comes from his own wardrobe, making it more of a relief that you didn’t simply shuck it off and let it fall to the floor.

After everything he’s done for you, you’d hate to let even a speck of dust sully it.

The process of peeling off your bandages is both sluggish and painful, but there’s a strange sense of relief that comes with letting your skin breathe. After tossing the sullied scraps into the nearby wastebin, you run the bath and allow the warm water and soap to wash over you. You’re tender still. Each brush of soap over wounded areas makes you cringe anew. The pain, however, is a welcome distraction from the thoughts and qualms that flock so readily to you. 

You throw yourself into the task, losing track of time until you’ve finished. It’s with great reluctance that you climb from the warm water. The cold air surrounds you near instantly and clings like a second skin, sending an intrusive shiver down your spine.

After toweling off, you debate how much you should dress. On one hand, being close to bare in front of the man you have just met, you know if you’ll get dressed completely, he might just ask for you to disrobe again. He can’t very well treat you with clothes in the way. Nervousness briefly churns in your stomach as you opt to only tug on the undergarments.

You poke your head out the door. Much to your surprise, he’s already waiting with an armful of supplies.

“Should I come out there?”

“I can redress thy wounds wherever thou art most comfortable,” he informs you, his expression twisting with sympathy.

“In the bathroom is fine, then.” Despite the permanent Ishgardian cold, your palms sweat as you open the door, allowing him to stride inside. There’s no reason to fear or doubt his intentions. He’s been nothing but the finest of gentlemen thus far. His gaze remains affixed to the floor as he bustles inside. He carefully unloads his armful of gauze, bandages and salves onto the kitchen counter. 

“I shan’t look anywhere unnecessary,” he assures you—

_ —And he hoped he did not lie. _

_ Still, he cannot deny the incredible thrill that danced down his spine when his fingers brushed across thine skin. Even while injured, thou attempted to maintain a firm, resolute demeanor. Only the slightest twinge of thine expression betrayed thy agony.  _

_ The sight of thou’s bloodied visage returned to the forefront of his mind. _

_ What kind of spectacle had thou created on the battlefield? How many foes had thou felled? Werest thou as incredible and grandiose as thy reputation had told? _

_ Thy’s body tensed and flexed as he rubbed the soothing ointment onto thine skin. He mapped out every wondrous plane and curve. A fleeting gaze glimpsed roguely at thine softer parts, idly admiring thy incredible form as he re-layered each bandage, treatment gentle and thorough, worshipful. As devoutly as a priest expressed his undying love to Halone. _

_ The fire that you sparked within him grew to a steady inferno, and to the Twelve he prayed thou did not notice the sheen of sweat that had coated his palms. Never had he felt such zealous passion.  _

_ Hardly a bell had passed whilst in your waking presence, and yet he was absolutely intoxicated. He was not a man, but rendered a beast, a hound, desperate for the slightest speck of attention thou might bestow upon him. _

_ He felt a twinge of relief as he fastened— _

The last piece of medical tape affixes yet another patch of gauze to your skin. 

“Thank you,” you’ve lost how many times you’d said that to him since waking. “For everything. I can only hope that I’ll be able to repay you, one day.”

“While thine’s generosity is most appreciated, rest assured I have received due compensation. The Holy See ensures my coffers are well filled, but even had they not, seeing the Warrior of Light hale and hearty would have been reward enough.”

Urianger moves away, taking his warmth with him. Again, he collects the supplies he had come in with, strolling towards the door. You hastily shrug on the shirt and trousers he’s so generously provided for you, wincing with each pull of muscle until you’re warm and clothed. The garments are too big for you, but better that than too tight.

You grab the robe from the rack. The fabric is warm and insulated, and covered in a spiced scent you’ve come to recognize as his. Idly, you shrug it on before turning to the door—

_ He stood in the doorframe, his eyes widening as he drank in thine intoxicating visage. On thy own, thou wert stunning, but draped in his robe thou wert astronomically, impossibly ethereal. The rich fabric draped over thine form, flowing down and bunching on the floor around thine feet. The edges dragged behind you like a bride’s wedding trail. _

_ It took several moments to jolt from his enraptured state, though the sight remained, burned deep into his mind, a lovely picture he would sooner die than forget. _

_ Would his cologne and incense cling to thou after? For how long? How— _

How long would it be until you can return to the field? The Scions are missing, not dead. You refused to believe that for the sake of your own sanity. Not until you find their bodies and could deny no further. You will not rest.

For now, though… all you can do is trail after him. He leads you into the same bedroom that you woke in, urging you to get more rest while he fixes breakfast. Had the simple process of bathing not been so draining, , you would try to assist him. Instead, you topple onto the mattress and worm underneath the blankets. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room bathed in blissful dark. Bookshelves line two of the walls, a gap between them left to make room for a desk. It’s hard to make out any other details, not when your eyelids are so traitorously heavy, not when your mind and body coalesce in their desires to corral you into an unsteady, uncomfortable sleep.

There’s no way to tell how much time passes when you wake next. The room is undisturbed, and the stillness near agitates you as you stir. Whether it’s been only fifteen minutes or several hours, you’re quite through with being still. How can you be content to waste away in sleep when there’s still so much you don’t know? When there are people who still so desperately need your help?

Even if you don’t know where the Scions reside, Raubahn is still likely imprisoned. Tataru is out there with no one to protect her. You ignore the twinges and pangs of pain that assault you when you throw your legs over the bed’s edge. If nothing else, the flare of agony helps awaken you further. The polished wooden floor is freezing against the bottoms of your feet as you amble towards the door…

Yet, a strange apprehension takes hold you you as you stand before it.

Should you really be walking around Urianger’s house alone while you’re his guest? Perhaps it’s only been fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’re disoriented and paranoid. You feel like a child who’s stayed up much too late and has to make the perilous sneak up to bed to avoid a scolding. Even after felling gods and monsters alike, it’s still social interaction and customs that worry you the most.

What would Thancred say, if he saw you so baffled by something so simple? He’d probably laugh and tease you. Maybe pat you on the back before offering genuine words of advice—maybe he’d know the ins and outs of Ishgardian etiquette thanks to some bizarre and far flung mission. You don’t know. You can’t ask him.

You don’t like being left alone with your thoughts.

That’s what pushes you to grab the doorknob and stroll into the hall, taking in the long corridor that looms ahead.

“Urianger?” You call cautiously. Steps slow, your breathing quiet as you grab the first doorknob to your left. Upon giving it a cursory twist, you discover it’s unlocked. Of course it is! He likely hasn’t expected you to snoop.

The door creaks open, revealing another bedroom. It’s similar to the guest one you have been given. The bed is perfectly made, sheets black and white, not a single crease out of place. The smell of recently burned incense makes you wrinkle your nose, curious. A desk nestles against a wall, haphazardly covered in papers and scrolls. It’s enough to pique your curiosity, but not enough to make you actually enter and investigate. That honor goes to the familiar pile of clothes nestled in one of the crannies, between the nightstand and a dresser.

Your clothes. A strange, ominous feeling sinks to your stomach as you push the door open and step inside, crossing the room in a few, deft strides. Why does he have these? The garments aren’t clean, still smattered in blood and other stains that make you grimace as you grip your shirt. You guess it makes sense. He couldn’t treat you with your filthy clothes on, after all. But seeing your garments so casually resting in a practical stranger’s home unsettles you regardless. Even worse, his bedroom.

Your glazed eyes roam the length of your ruined clothes briefly before you set them back down, folding them the way they had been. The way you back out of the bedroom is hasty, but the closing of the door is done with the delicacy and precision of a master calligrapher.

Relief relaxes you somewhat as you continue down the hall, glad you haven’t been caught red-handed. It takes a matter of minutes to find him, still in the kitchen, having just finished cooking. Breakfast is delicious, though the food settles uneasily in your stomach. 

You don’t know his intentions. Had you not discovered your clothes neatly stacked away in his room. Are his intentions really pure? Had he intended to wash your garments and return them to you at a later time?

Are you any safer here than you were back in Ul’dah?

You blink, and you’re suddenly back in the banquet hall, underneath the dazzling lights and immersed in conversation with some gaudy noble you don’t even know.

The scene changes all too quickly—

A disembodied arm, the screams of innocent servers and bystanders—the way the Elder Seedseer and the Storm General saw fit to merely watch as you and your allies were chased from the banquet. They let this happen, you realize while you sit on Urianger’s couch and drink some tea.

They let this happen. After you’ve chased gods out of their homes, after you lent your aid, assisting their people with everything you have. Cold. It’s so, so cold and the breakfast in your stomach threatens to resurface because-gods, how can you ever trust anyone again? Especially those in power?

It’s Urianger’s voice that distracts you, brings you back to the surface. He returns from his study and remains at your side for the next few hours, much to your surprise. Your memory is a blur from then on. Your senses fade in and out, lost in a daze for god knows how long. Only the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.

How long had he been speaking to you? You do your best to piece through the conversation, half lost in your thoughts and half still in the present.

Isn’t he someone important? You can’t quite recall what he said–something about working for the church, about being a healer. Doesn’t he have something else to do? You imagine the Holy See needs all the help you can get with the ongoing war—but you don’t question him. 

Conversation is slow and steady. Only every now and then does he ask questions, things that are easy to answer–

_ “From where dost thou hail?” _

_ “Was breakfast to thine liking?” _

_ “Would thou likest more tea? Another blend, perhaps?” _

Calm, casual, yet you do not miss the looks he sends you when he thinks you are not aware. Something changes in his expression, the quiet, thoughtful calm touching a shade darker. Those keen, gold glances make your spine stiffen, your body curling in on itself, taking shelter in the robe he so kindly gifted you. The afternoon slopes by, time passing quicker once he grants you access to his incredible library.

The immense shelves line the walls and cluster around a single wooden table in rows. After grabbing an index of fairytales, you tuck yourself into a seat and mindlessly draw your gaze across the pages, taking in the immense detail put into each drawing.

It’s easy to lose track of time. By the time you finish combing through your chosen book, you realize the sunlight is darkened, the day beginning to come to a close.

Your legs cry out and cramp as you push away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping against the hard wood floor.

The hallways of Urianger’s home are lit by several floating orbs of light. They flounce through the air, casting the hall into patterns of warm glow and dim shadows.

You can pass through them without trouble–they part and shape around your body, making room for you to pass. A sudden jolt of stomach that gnaws your stomach prevents you from investigating the lights. Ah, you had missed lunch. Further, you venture, keeping an ear out for footsteps, breathing, any words said–

“Urianger, my good fellow! Too long has it been since we last saw each other!” A broad, familiar voice reaches your ears and draws you forward. You grasp a doorknob and pull it open to reveal the living room,the same as you left it bells prior. The front door on the far side of the room clicks shut behind Haurchefant de Fortemps’s tall, striking form. He’s abandoned the platemail and armor you’re so accustomed to seeing him in, instead donning a thick jacket, black pants and knee-high boots. A plaid scarf is bundled around his neck, checkered blue and white.

Haurchefant brightens at the sight of you, blue eyes widening, lips curling into the widest of smiles. He bustles past Urianger, arms outstretched to receive you.

“Oh, my friend! How glad I am to see you safe and sound.” His voice lowers to a soothing rumble as he wraps you in an embrace, swaddling you in decadent warmth. He’s soft and warm and alive, someone you actually know and can rely on in terrible, turbulent times. The tension dissolves from your body as you lean forward, slumping into his arms. “When I heard of what happened, I feared the worst. I would have stormed through the gates of Ul’dah myself had I not heard of your escape and timely arrival.” 

His cheek nuzzles against your temple. There aren’t words to describe your relief, so you settle for curling your fingers into the back of his coat, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. 

No, no. You will not cry again. Yda wouldn’t want you to cry.

Regardless, the tears break free and smudge against the fabric of his coat. 

“After dinner, we’ll bring you home–back to Fortemps manor. My father and brothers are incredibly excited to meet you.” He pulls back, but keeps you within arms reach, a large hand perching on your shoulder whilst the other idles at your side. Had it been any other day, you would have flustered at his closeness, but now you feel hot shame well up within you. He shouldn’t have to see you like this–not when he praises you as the realm’s greatest warrior, not when he sings your praises as though you’re immortal.

Upon sight of your teary expression, he freezes. The smile on his face dims, expression contorting in the deepest sympathy. That’s what does it, your mind and body cracking like an egg as a sob breaks free from your chapped lips. 

“Oh, do not look at me so,” he shepherds you close to his chest a second time, rocking you gently back and forth. His sweater smells like a warm hearth. The faint scent of chocolate clings to the thick fabric, bringing you back to Camp Dragonhead, to a place softer and simpler. “A smile better suits a hero.”

“I… shall begin preparations for thine dinner,” Urianger says awkwardly from the corner of the room. In the middle of the your emotions breaking free, you quite forgot his presence.

“Ah, as much as I appreciate your magnanimity, that will not be necessary.” You can hear the regret in Haurchefant’s voice. “I will gladly set some time aside for us to fraternize at a later date. However, I came with the intent to bring her to the manor. We already have a room prepared, you see.”

“I see’st,” There’s a tension to Urianger’s voice, like he wants to object, but he offers no argument, no refusal. He says your name softly, breathing out a tender sigh. “I left thine belongings in the guest bedroom. Permit me to retrieve–”

“No!” You break away from Haurchefant’s hold, voice impassioned, “I can get them myself.” Despite your injuries, you’re not made of glass. This constant state of inaction leaves you feeling worthless, helpless, even though you’re not. You’ve felled countless gods! You can weather the pain, you can do something as simple as climb the stairs to get your own damn belongings.

“As thou wishest.” Urianger nods, and Haurchefant allows you to fully break from his embrace to journey back into the hallway. You fumble in the dark of the guest bedroom until you find your staff and the bag of items you had on your person during the battle, minus… your old clothes. Before you leave, you cast off the robe Urianger so generally lent you, immediately missing its warmth. Perhaps you’d have taken a last indulgent sniff of it, but the sight that greeted you in his bedroom haunts you. 

You want to get out of this place as soon as possible. Maybe the fresh air will help clear your head and relax you.

You shrug the bag’s strap over your shoulder, thanking the Twelve that at least one part of you was left uninjured. You don’t linger, ambling out of the room, journeying back down the corridor, coming to a stop before the living room door.

“I would prefer it if thou left her in my care for the time being. The nature of her injuries is severe. T’would be most advised to keep her close to a professional–” Urianger’s voice is imploring yet hesitant, as though smothering pure fervent passion.

“It is quite fortunate that House Fortemps has some of Ishgard’s best chirurgeons under their employ, then,” Haurchefant cuts him off, steadfast and assured. He leaves little room for argument. You’ve never heard him cut someone off so abruptly. “Pardon my assumption, but you seem quite flustered, my friend. Is there a reason she should be left exclusively under your care?”

“My simple wish is to see mine task doled to by  the Holy See through to fullest completion, tis all,” Urianger dismisses him. 

“Then on behalf of the Holy See, as a member of the Heavens Ward, allow me to assure you that this will have no effect on your standing nor your pay. Archbishop Aymeric was notified of my intentions and approved them.” A pause. The creaking of the floorboards underneath someone’s feet. “It’s unlike you to be so emotionally transparent, my friend. You usually covet your feelings like a dragon hoards its treasure.”

“Thou art jumping to conclusions in your theatrics, lord Haurchefant.”

“If that’s the case, then, I so humbly beg your forgiveness and thank you for your service. Your… attentiveness to my lady has been noticed. And appropriately appreciated.” There’s a sharpness underneath Haurchefant’s typically airy voice that you’ve never quite heard from him. 

...You don’t want to hear it anymore. 

You grasp and twist the doorknob, the living room falling silent as you enter. 

“There you are! Come along, come along,” Haurchefant wastes no time in bustling over to you. “Allow me to take that. You’ll bear no such burden while I am at your side.” He tugs on the strap of your bag and you submit, allowing him to throw it over his shoulder. “You should also take my coat, tis cold without,” in an admittedly impressive juggling act, he both keeps grip on your belongings and shrugs off his jacket at the same time, handing you the heavy, soft garment.

“Are you sure?” you hold it up and eye it with a raised eyebrow, before looking to him.

“Of course. I have long adjusted to Ishgard’s admittedly inhospitable climate, whereas you have just arrived. The walk is short. I’ll be perfectly fine.” He’s wearing long sleeves, so you don’t push it. Instead, you slide into the coat, taking in the warm, soft fabric and enjoying the scent that clings to it. The heart and the home, warm hot chocolate prepared upon your arrival to Camp Dragonhead.

The sleeves cover your hands by a long shot and the entire garment is big enough for you to wear it as a dress. The weight of it, and how much it covers is comforting.

Comforting to the point where you don’t allow yourself to bat an eye as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close to his body. You don’t want to read into his actions, don’t want to think about anything you overheard. Even the notion of having something else to worry about and lose sleep over nearly makes you break down all over again. 

You say your last thanks to Urianger and promise to visit him. It’s the least you can do after he was kind enough to heal you. Perhaps he was being paid to do so, but you don’t imagine cooking breakfast was a part of his job. Nor was it his job to make you tea and fetch you new clothes, new shoes, most like.

A cold gust of air greets you as soon as Haurchefant opens the front door. The light has long died, leaving the street lamps to illuminate the grand avenues of Ishgard’s upper class district. This is your first look at the city’s interior, you realize. Your gaze draws over the grand buildings, taking in their steepness and structure. It’s grim, but beautiful. Deadset and stiff in its design but stable and confident in the face of the tragedy it regularly endures.

There is no moon, tonight, as though it too has decided to hide away with its own grief. 

* * *

_ He apologized to you as he tread upstairs. He apologized to Minfilia, to the vast pantheon of gods and goddesses, to the Scions, to all those he hadn’t been able to aid in their time of need.  _

_ Urianger’s exhaustion burned him raw. He was not privy to the framing and ambush of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. However, that doesn’t alleviate him of his guilt and grief. Having thou so politely dropped into his lap by the newly appointed Archbishop had granted him brief succor. Knowing he had the chance to help the survivors of the incident was a soothing balm to the wound.  _

_ He had not anticipated the way he had grown so instantly attached. Neither had he anticipated the fervent desire that gripped him, nor the way his blood boiled when that rapscallion barged into his home and stole you away. _

_ The guest bedroom did not bear your scent as he hoped it would. _

_ He felt as though a hostage in his own body as he navigated to the bed, gaze fixed upon the robe thou hadst cast so generously onto the sheets. A mere piece of thee to tide him over until he saw thou next. The mattress bounced as he fell upon it, face shoved into the plushness of the garment, taking in a deep breath. His cock throbbed at the scent of you, blood rushing down whilst he parted his robes with a trembling hand.  _

_ Like a howling, braying beast did he rock his hips. The friction was painful without oil, but pain mattered precious little when he craved thou so. Moans rattled from his weary lungs, his mind corrupted with images of thee, so decadent underneath him. _

_ Thy nails, digging into his shoulder as thou let thy voice ring free–crying and sobbing and begging for benediction by his hand, by his cock. That mattress creaked as he worked himself to completion, a final cry freeing itself from his parted lips as he spilled sticky and hot onto the robe. _

_ He collapsed to the side, hot shame washing over him as he lifted his gaze to the window, contemplating a moonless sky. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to TenkeyLess, Neila_Nuruodo, WickedWiles and Nidvaller for beta reading this chapter! I could not have done this without them. 
> 
> Please, show them some love!!

The fresh, frigid air pulls in and out of your weary lungs, a refreshing change from the stifling coziness of Urianger’s abode. Despite not being accustomed to it, you appreciate the way the cold settles against your skin. It’s a better wake up call than any tea could ever be. Haurchefant shields you from the harshest of the chill; the weight of his arm is a welcome warmth, a reassurance that you are not alone. Whilst you traverse the emptying streets, he takes the time to point out various locations and landmarks.

He chatters like a child eager to show their parents an art project.

“And just over there is the Jeweled Crozier—where you can find anything and everything your heart so desires. It’s also home to an array of restaurants should you grow peckish while on a shopping spree. Emmanellain, my younger brother, idles there often, much to my eldest sibling’s, Artoirel, dismay.” The swell of fondness in his voice is heart-warming. You should have expected someone as delightful and devoted as he to cherish his family like this.

“I look forward to meeting them.” If they’re related to Haurchefant, they must be almost as wonderful as he… and even if they aren’t, you owe them a great debt for sheltering you. If they hadn’t extended that kindness, you would have been forced to fend for yourself, left to hide in whatever decrepit crevice you could find. Still, you can’t help but want to know more. All he’s given you thus far are brief summaries, which, to be fair, is likely all you have time for.

Artoirel must be the responsible type, you assume, from both his position as the eldest brother and his apparent dismay over Emmanelain’s troublemaking. Is he as kind as Haurchefant? Or is he colder, more devout to his responsibilities than he is compassionate?

“They will adore you,” Haurchefant insists all the way up the stone stairs. For as much as Ishgard has gone through, the noble district seems untouched by war. “If Emmanellain gets fresh with you, I apologize on his behalf. As the youngest, he is perhaps… a bit spoiled.”

“The kind of person who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?” You raise an eyebrow. As close as you are to Haurchefant, you know next to nothing about his family or life prior to meeting you. What shaped the man you knew and treasured? What were his parents like? Had he always aspired to be a knight?

“A bright young man with an unfortunate tendency to philander and act recklessly.” Haurchefant clears his throat and corrects you sheepishly, sparing you a smile. “He means well, I assure you.”

The conversation flows slow and steadily as you walk through the fragile veil of the night. Street lamps shed bright light onto the concrete paths. It’s eerie, almost ethereal in comparison to Ul’dah’s bustling nightlife. No vendors, no street performers, no crowds. Simply sheer silence against a dull grey backdrop.

Eventually, you reach Fortemps Manor. It’s a tall, elegant building much like every other you’ve seen. Two armored guards are posted out front, their steel halberds at the ready. They give a low, courteous nod as you pass, opening the doors to reveal the interior of your new home.

The marble floors are so shiny you can see your reflection. A circular bench rests atop an elegant throw rug in the center of the lobby, the middle of the bench decorated with an immense floral display. Embroidered curtains hug either side of the wide windows. You don’t even want to try and gauge the price of even one set; artisan goods like that sell for thousands of gil a pop, far beyond your price range.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe. A warm flame crackles, nestled in a well-stocked fireplace. It extends its warmth graciously to you, thawing you from the dry cold. This is their living room? They get to return to this luxury at the end of every long day? “I’m kind of envious. Even the Rising Stones wasn’t this nice… and we had a bar out front.” Customers would stumble out drunk or worse, and piss in the nearby street after a night of hard drinking. 

“Well, there won’t be a need for you to feel that way a moment longer,” he assures you. When you glance up at him, he’s smiling, gaze unmistakably tender. “This is your home now as much as it is mine.” 

He’s so utterly devout that you can’t not believe him.

Your home. A place you can always come back to without fear or betrayal. When you were driven from the rank sewers of Ul’dah, you had given up on calling anywhere home. It seemed impossible, malms away, ripped from your bloodied fingers with no warning.

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks.

“Ser Haurchefant,” a new voice cuts through the air, ripping you from your train of thought. Probably for the better. You’ve cried enough today. 

A tall, blond man strides into the living room from one of the branched hallways, clad in gleaming white armor. You’re not sure what grabs your attention the most, the incredible pauldrons which adorn his shoulders or the stripe of pale gold that slopes over his chest plate. Blond hair sweeps to the side, framing his angular face, his stern expression. His vivid white armor’s shape contrasts with the shadows at his back.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He glances from Haurchefant and then to you, recognition brimming in his blue gaze. “Ah. The Warrior of Light. Tis good to see you’ve arrived safe and sound. I am Zephirin de Valhourdin of the Heavens Ward. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His torso dips in a polite bow, sparing you the slightest of smiles before turning his gaze back to Haurchefant. Hurried, hasty. “Archbishop Aymeric has need for us. I was sent to retrieve you.”

“Can this not wait ‘till morning?” Haurchefant’s tone oozes exasperation in a way you’ve never quite heard before. A glance at his expression reveals a foreign neutrality. His lips are set in a firm line, an eyebrow raised in slight inquiry. 

“Once more, I apologize,” Zephirin’s breath leaves him in a sigh. “It will take less than a bell, I’m told.”

“If we must. I expect you to treat me to a fresh tankard of ale tomorrow.” Haurchefant’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. His arm drops back to his side. The warmth he’s cocooned you in is torn away with little preamble. Despite the crackling hearth, you immediately feel a new kind of cold settle over you.

“Right.” Zephirin follows Haurchefant from the room and back out into the cold, leaving you alone. Again. You clutch the Fortemps lordling’s jacket tight to yourself and shut your eyes, feeling exhaustion pull at your weary consciousness.

You haven’t done much but sit around all day, yet you still feel fatigue clutch you close, sinking its devilish claws into your aching muscles. It’s agonizing, to be this tired from doing so little. 

Had you not risen to acclaim through slaying gods and monsters, perhaps you would be less bitter about your new weakness, about the time you need to recover. Urianger had asked you to take a moon away from strenuous activity, but you don’t know if your sanity will let you.

The injuries that mercilessly litter your body ensure those responsible for the banquet can roam free and unpunished. That thought makes your blood curdle, the very fabric of your being rearing up and howling refrain at your helplessness, at the unkindness of this reality.

“Oh! Good evening.” Yet another new voice rings out across the spacious living room, rich and soft in quality. Your gaze sweeps in its direction, coming to rest on the tall, slender form of another elezen. Adorned with a thick, elegant alpine coat, the new arrival’s hair is as black as coal. It’s long and wavy, swept beautifully above his forehead to crest over the left side of his face. He’s handsome, sharp facial features and intent gaze unlike the soft gentility you’ve come to know and expect from Haurchefant. “I assume you’re the Warrior of Light?”

“Uhm, yes.” The sudden, unexpected social interaction causes the cogs in your brain to very suddenly knock back into place. To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how to respond here. So you tell him your name, do your best to act naturally, act cool despite being a stranger in a strange land.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His heels click against the marble floor as he approaches, thin lips curling into a welcoming smile. He’s the perfect picture of a noble gentleman, right down to the eloquent way in which he bows at the waist. “I must thank you for your service. Had you not led our defenses at the Steps of Faith, we likely would have met crushing defeat. It is truly an honor to have you.”

“It’s no problem. I should be thanking you for letting me stay,” You manage a small smile, cheeks growing warm under his unfiltered praise. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t extended the invitation... speaking of, is Alphinaud here? And Tataru? They came in with me, right?”

“Yes. They arrived with you, in admittedly much better condition. No harm has been done to Alphinaud beyond a few bruises and thoughts fraught with worry. He went to sleep half a bell ago, but I’m sure he will be delighted to see you safe and sound,” the noble replies. “Miss Tataru is completely unscathed, but has opted to head to The Forgotten Knight, a local tavern, to speak with the locals and attempt to gather information on your companions’ whereabouts.”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Had either of them been severely injured or—Hydaelyn forbid—killed, you never would have forgiven yourself. It’s tempting to ask to see Alphinaud now, but you know he needs his rest. Tataru is enough of a grown woman to take care of herself, and you don’t know if you can manage another long walk, so she’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

“Good, thank you again. That’s such a relief. If he had—uh, never mind.” You’re exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but you still have enough good sense to not unload your innermost feelings on a man you’ve just met, on a noble kind enough to shelter you and your allies despite the target painted on your back. “Haurchefant left with, uh—”

“Lord Zephirin? I had assumed so. In the meantime, I can show you to your room. You must be exhausted after the ordeal you’ve been put through,” Artoirel offers, every bit as kind and polite as you expected him to be, given Haurchefant’s unfailing cheerfulness. His expression softens with sympathy. You glance back at the arched double doors leading outside. It feels wrong to head to bed without giving Haurchefant a proper goodnight, but you don’t know when he’ll return. Turning back to Artoirel, you acquiesce to the siren’s call of your fatigue.

Your stomach snarls and immediately you are reminded that Haurchefant whisked you away from Urianger’s humble abode before he had the chance to prepare dinner.

“...Did you miss dinner?” Artoirel inquires and your cheeks flame with warmth.

“I did, but it’s no trouble,” You try to wave it off. You can wait until tomorrow morning to eat. It won’t be the first time you crawled into bed on an empty stomach. “I can wait, really—”

“Nonsense. We ate only a bell ago and the chefs won’t be leaving for another two. Come,” he gives you no room to argue, a hand gracing the small of your back. You jolt at the touch, wide eyes staring up at his handsome profile as he steers you alone. “You can sit in the kitchen whilst you wait—you there!” he calls to a passing servant woman, listing out a small order before continuing to lead you back across the living room. The extravagant furniture vanishes as the structure siphons into a slender hallway that lies in the back.

“Thank you,” It wouldn’t do to argue with him, and you would be a fool to turn down a fresh, hot meal. “So, you’re Haurchefant’s older brother?”

“That I am,” He sends you another smile, leading you into a wide dining room. An oval-shaped table sits in the middle surrounded by eight, elegant chairs resting around it, all positioned with perfect symmetry. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Several crystals affixed to the ends of its curving, twining arms emit a vibrant, illuminating light. 

“I am quite fortunate to have him as a brother. He’s been incredibly dependable since our father stepped down.” A solemn smile graces his lips as he speaks, as though recalling better times long past.

“The count stepped down?” You settle into one of the chairs, allowing your weary muscles to relax into the firm frame.

“Yes, it’s quite common for house leaders to step down as they reach their twilight years, often to prevent reckless decisions due to their old age. Our father fortunately isn’t in that position. He was simply ready to retire and pursue other passions… I shall let him disclose those details himself—”

The next half-bell passes in quiet, mild conversation. It’s simple and surface level in a way that puts you at ease. He pointedly avoids any mention of the banquet or your injuries. It makes you feel coddled the longer you speak, but the food arrives before you get truly miffed at being handled with kid gloves. It’s a delicious dinner, a meal that fills and warms you from the inside. The meat is thick and tender, the vegetables expertly cooked and spiced. You barely manage to not scarf it all down like a monster, reminding yourself that the nobleman who’s so generously sheltering you is sitting mere fulms away.

After dinner, he escorts you to your room. From the dining room, you head back across the lobby and in a hall that branches off the left side. Heading further into the house, you walk up a steep case of stairs and down another wide corridor. Artoirel leaves you in front of a polished wooden door, bidding you a polite farewell alongside an offer to show you the city proper tomorrow. If Haurchefant is busy, you may just take him up on that.

You enter the room and let your back thunk against it, eyes shutting as the day’s events wash over you in their entirety. Your eyes fall shut, the wooden surface cool against the back of your head.

It… it would be a good idea to get some sleep.

Yet, a pair of feminine voices reach you through the door.

“Lord Zephirin was… in his chambers…” As they come closer you guess they’re a pair of maid servants. Over your time of bumping elbows with nobility, you have learned that the help are by far the most knowledgeable when it comes to the inner workings of any noble house. They cook the food, personally serve each member of the family, have access to every room on the property. 

They most definitely have access to a wealth of knowledge about House Fortemps and all its occupants.

“I could hear them, plain as day! You’d think someone so high ranking would attempt to keep their affairs quieter…”

“Be quiet!” a second voice hisses. “Imagine what they’d do to you if they heard you gossiping so!”

“Well, they should at least keep it down. Imagine how I felt, having to hear them carrying on while cleaning ser Artoirel’s study!” the first voice acquiesces into a quieter grumble.

“I’m sure they don’t really give a damn about our comfort.” You can practically hear the second woman roll her eyes.

“Ser Haurchefant should at least care about his good House’s reputation! Think, if the court heard he was gallivanting around with—”

Their voices lapse into quiet little grousing until you can no longer hear them, which is probably for the best. You already have enough to think about to keep you up at night. It’s likely nothing more than idle gossip, you tell yourself. But then again, what reason would they have to lie?

You sigh, shoving the matter to the furthest reaches of your mind.

You lay Haurchefant’s jacket across a luxurious, cushioned arm chair facing an elegant coffee table. You nearly stumble out of your trousers and rip your shirt in haste, clambering over to the tall wardrobe. It sits proudly next to a dresser-vanity combination.

This is nicer than any room you’ve ever stayed in, you realize, from the lush weave of the throw carpet to the very grain of the wooden furniture.

A decadent robe rests on a silver hanger inside the wardrobe, just as nice as the one Urianger lent you earlier. It chases the cold from your weary muscles as you tumble onto the bed, ignoring the pain that jostles your entire body upon impact. You barely have enough energy to burrow underneath the bundled blankets, much less decipher anything you just heard.

The best thing you can do for yourself is fall asleep and get some rest. So, you toss and turn among the sea of blankets, until you descend into the velvety embrace of sleep.

\- - -

Lantern light spreads over the concrete in spaced out lines as the knights traverse the holy steps. They venture towards the apex of the Holy See, yet Haurchefant’s thoughts cannot be further from the man who requires their presence. Archbishop Aymeric is a man he’s spoken with countless times, who he’s gotten to know in a shockingly intimate way. A bond old, yet pale in comparison to what he feels for you.

His thoughts return to you constantly, a grandiose girandole of scenarios in which he gets to know you deeply and intimately. He cannot help but recall how his jacket dwarved your precious form, could only imagine the sweet curves and planes of your body, the sanguine siren call of your raw fragility threatening to drive him from his good senses.

Never had he wished to see you under such duress, yet the helpless gaze you leveled him with whilst caged in Urianger’s abode still sent thrill after thrill down his spine. It haunted him to this very moment.

“I anticipated her to at the very least be an Elezen.” Zephirin’s baleful grousing disguises itself as a genuinely thoughtful statement, his tone shockingly level. His voice interrupts Haurchefant’s musings, ripping through the pristine portrait memory crafted of your image.

Ah, is that… envy in his fellow commander’s voice? How unseemly for someone held in such high regard by the general populace! Haurchefant isn’t sure whether to be flattered or mildly aggravated. so he settles for ignoring the other. He barely spares the other man a glance as they come to stand before Ishgard’s mightiest cathedral, lit tall by ever-burning touches, stone smothered by flamelight. 

“I don’t see how species matters in this situation,” He raises an eyebrow steeply, making sure to emphasize his skepticism, for shame is a powerful tool and socking Zephirin in the face would surely cause a stir. “Especially when she seamlessly led our defenses in order to protect the Steps of Faith.”

Zephirin has been a good friend to him, but he will not stand to hear your grand name slandered even the slightest bit. The man at his side has rested upon his silken sheets in nights past, but even that treasured intimacy pales in comparison to his unadulterated passion.

He will not have Zephirin sow seeds of doubt and discontent in regards to you. Not when you are soft with injury and so perfectly pliable to him, not when you are finally within arm’s reach.

“‘Twas not my intent to offend you.” Zephirin makes the wise decision to rein himself in, a stiffness in his voice that speaks to unpreparedness for Haurchefant’s push back. It makes sense. Never has Haurchefant dared to be so stern with any of his fellow Heavens’ Ward. Not when he was so young and green, so recently inducted into its vaunted ranks. “The Warrior of Light has my utmost respect. I think it’s simply… novel that you’ve chosen to fawn over someone so decidedly different than anyone in Ishgard.”

Statues frame either side of the grand hall they enter, heroes memorialized in carefully crafted effigies that watch in silence as they traverse the stairs. The sound of Zephirin’s gleaming platemail clanging echoes up and down the hollowed corridor, somehow making it feel emptier.

“Then again, you have made a habit of walking to the beat of your own drum,” Zephirin continues knowingly, pensive, observant rather than judgmental.

“The Holy See will always have my sword at their service and my undying loyalty, but the people of our fine city have a habit of stubbornly clinging to useless tradition. It would be narrow-minded of me to limit my romantic interests by species.” Haurchefant shrugs as they reach the top of the staircase, continuing down the hallowed halls. The distinct lack of moonlight makes the halls seem older and dingier than usual. 

“I apologize if I offended you,” Zephirin says. “I have your best interests at heart when I advise you keep some of your more outlandish beliefs close to your chest. You know how the nobility likes to gossip.”

Hah! Haurchefant barely stops himself from barking a laugh, both from disbelief and genuine amusement. To think, the bastard child of the Fortemps has gained the favor of the Heavens’ Ward’s most vaunted! Distantly, he wonders how his fool of a step-mother would react. To think, both children born in wedlock would be passed up in favor of him, the reminder that her husband had strayed!

“The nobility cannot rob me of the position I have worked endlessly for. Let them gossip.” Haurchefant brushes off the other man’s warning with an unintended note of disdain in his voice, left over from the memory of the witch his father once called a wife. 

He blinks a moment later. Ah. Being rude to Zephirin certainly isn’t in his best interests. Best mend any potential rift between them before it even forms.

“My apologies. The hour is late and the day’s fatigue is getting the better of me,” he says, voice softening at the edges like the sweetened edge of an apple pastry. His gaze is honey, his expression tender as he smiles in his fellow’s direction. “I appreciate your concern, ser Zephirin. It is truly an honor to serve at your side.”

“It’s no trouble. However, it would be in your best interests to make sure you don’t allow your tongue to slip in the archbishop’s presence.” His fellow Heavens’ Ward acquiesces, likely deciding the conversation not worth continuing. 

“Duly noted.” Haurchefant idly assures him, gaze drawn out one of the steep windows, towards the moonless sky. Silence settles between the both of them, the empty space filled only by the sharp sound of Zephirin’s greaves against the marble tile.

\- - -

“Full glad am I to see you in one piece,” is the first thing Alphinaud says to you as you wrap your arms tight around him. You ignore the way your wounds ache and groan in protest, because oh god, you’re so utterly relieved to see him alive and safe—the admittedly bratty child whose tailed you so long, through a seemingly endless cycle of hardships.

Knowing he was more or less alright was comforting; actually seeing him put all your worries at rest. 

“Thank the gods you’re alright.” You press your cheek to his temple and give him another loving squeeze. He gasps and jolts under the sudden pressure, noises devolving to a delighted, nervous little giggle. Hesitant fingers curl in the dense fabric of your robe. He’s so warm, so soft and alive. He’s one of the two people you have left in this cold world and you’re not going to let him anywhere near potential danger anytime soon.

“After all that happened, you’re concerned for my well-being?” he inquires incredulously. He shakes his head, but cannot hide his weary, fond smile as he steps back. He looks you up and down, gaze softening with sympathy as he looks you up and down. The smile he adorns turns into a guilt-ridden frown. “I must apologize. What happened with the Crystal Braves was utterly and completely my fault. I should have—”

He cuts himself off as a line of servants flows into the kitchen. The light from the chandelier glints off the extravagant, silver platters they carry.

Fresh steam rolls off the mounds of food as they set each one down, arranging them artfully down the long table’s center.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reassure him over the sound of silverware and fine porcelain and hushed chattering. “It’s not your fault. You’re too young to be leading any kind of organization and Minfilia should have known that.”

“I should have known that. It’s because of my recklessness that—” His voice cracks with his agony and you once more reach for him, grasping him his hand warm and tight, attempting to convey all the love and passion and forgiveness you can manage with a simple, physical gesture.

Are you disappointed in him? Had such terrible tragedy not stolen your friends from you, perhaps you would have been. But all you can feel right now is overwhelming relief.

“There’s no way you could have known, Alphinaud. Because you’re young and no amount of education could have changed what happened.” Your voice is hurried and rushed and desperate, more of a plea than a statement. “Happened. Because it’s in the past, and we can’t go back and fix it. All we can do is go on and grow from this. It’s not your fault, Alphinaud. Please believe me.”

He’s just a boy. Despite his past arrogance, he didn’t deserve to be humbled like this. He’s not even eighteen and he’s already been exposed to the horrors of war, already had some of his closest friends stolen from him in a single night.

He’s just a boy. A boy with no home, no present parents, and no more political power. Just a boy, but most importantly, he is now your boy.

“I...” he gives a small, sputtering laugh, a hand coming up to wipe away a spare teardrop. “When you insist with such ardent passion, I cannot help but want to believe you. In any case, you’re right. Wallowing in my own self-pity will get us nowhere… and it will not bring anyone back,” he ended with a soft sigh, staring blankly at a plate stacked high with pancakes and fruits. “It wouldn’t do for our new allies to see me in such a crestfallen state.”

“You’re allowed to cry and grieve.” Your expression softens. You press your hand gently to his shoulder. “You just have to know it isn’t your fault.”

You’re not entirely sure if he believes you, but you aren’t given any time to reassure him further. Artoirel strolls in with two other men, who are introduced to you as former Count Edmont Fortemps and Emmanellain. 

To make a good impression, you’re forced to shove your Alphinaud-related worries to the back of your mind. After a pleasant breakfast, Haurchefant at last makes his return, sweeping you into one of the more private lounges whilst Alphinaud opts to head to the study at Artoirel’s side, hoping to learn more about Ishgard’s political climate and resources he can use to locate the Scions.

“Good morning, my lady,” Haurchefant openly fawns, mischief gleaming like flint and steel in his eyes. “I hope you had a good rest, last night? I specifically made sure they gave you the softest mattress we have to offer!”

His shameless affection makes your cheeks grow warm. No matter how much time you spend with him, his unabashed affection never fails to astonish you.

He sits next to you, his side pressed right up against your own. 

“I slept fine,” you assure, promptly ignoring the gossip you overheard last night. Even if what the maids said happens to be true, it’s none of your business, despite how curious you are. 

Prior to all this recent chaos, you dismissed his affection as mere friendliness, denied the idea that he could be romantically interested in you, someone so constantly occupied with your work. 

He merely supports the Scions and their mission statement, you had attempted to reason.

I don’t have time for romance, you convinced yourself. Before you knew it, you had crafted excuse after excuse, each one growing more elaborate in nature.

“You spoil me too much, really. You haven’t eaten breakfast and here you are, asking after me.” You try to sound indignant, despite the way your heart thrums so wildly in your chest.

“I’ll have you know I purchased one fine bowl of stew from a trustworthy vendor on my way home! Though, I am touched by your concern. It’s simply riveting to know you keep me so close in your thoughts.” He sends you an impish grin, the weight of his hand warm on your shoulder. “Forgive me, though.” His voice dips into something genuinely solemn, gaze shifting downcast with sudden guilt. “T’was my intent to dine with you this morning. However, the archbishop required my services and it is not my place to deny His Holiness.”

“Don’t apologize.” You level him with an incredulous stare. Are all Ishgardians prone to such melodrama? With how deeply he pouted, any passerby could easily assume his mother had just passed. “You had work. It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Ahh, how could I forget!” He seems to ignore your reassurances, hanging his head low. “Allow me to make up for this transgression by taking you to the Jeweled Cozier. Surely a veritable sea of gifts, including the realm’s finest garments, would be an acceptable appeasement?” he drawls, his charitable intent near knocking you flat.

“Haurchefant, that’s so sweet, but I couldn’t possibly—”

“You arrived in our fine city with naught but the clothes on your back, correct?” He cuts you off in a way that makes your ears burn hot. Your gaze dives to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes.

He’s not wrong, but did he really have to bring that up?

“Yes, but—”

“And—pardon my well-intentioned assumption—would you say you have not a single possession to your name?” His gloved fingers find your chin and delicately coax your face upwards, the sudden gesture shocking you still. After a moment of attempting to gather your frayed nerves, you swallow and nod.

That quaint, smug smile widens.

“Then allow me to treat you. Please. Hardly ever do I spend my coin, and my pockets are so heavy that they encumber my every move. It would be a delight, nay, a relief to spend some on you.” His dramatics practically fill the room, and you’re suddenly grateful as he releases your chin… only to slide off the couch and onto his knees. He clasps his hands together, fingers intertwining, head dipping to mimic prayer.

“Stop!” You raise your hands to push at his clenched fists, protesting before he can wax any more flowery poetic. “I get it! I get it! We can go shopping together!”

“Ah! There’s that brilliant common sense you are so well-known for!” His smile turns a touch smug as you acquiesce, pushing himself to his feet. “Wonderful, simply wonderful. I’ll go get you a coat. We don’t have many, so you’ll have to settle for one of mine.”

With that, he scurries off, asking you to stay put whilst he retrieves it for you. 

It’s plush and fur-lined, multiple sizes too large for you. It buries you, coated in his soft scent, cocoa and faint spice, a familiar comfort in a strange, new city. 

The Jeweled Crozier wasn’t a market filled with glitz and glamour as much as a series of shops, restaurants and vendor stalls among the sea of grey stonework. It’s the most you’ve seen of the lower and upper class mingling. It’s elezen as far as you can see, dotted with the occasional hyur. Despite being clothed in Ishgardian garb, you stick out like a sore thumb—and those in the crowd have no problem with making you really feel it.

Countless gazes glue to you, making your ears hot with shame. You’re out of place, away from every home you’ve ever known.

“Pay them no mind.” Haurchefant breaks you from your train of thought, sparing you a kind smile. “Hardly ever do outsiders venture inside the city walls. They’re just curious.”

And ignore them you eventually do, once Haurchefant tugs you inside a spacious store. It becomes impossible to think about the public’s general public opinion of you when you’re face-to-face with racks of fine garments, overwhelming you instantly. Where are you supposed to start? You desperately look over the blouses and skirts and pants and dresses, suddenly losing the mental checklist you had come up with.

“I’ll apologize now for taking too long,” you say with a nervous chortle. “I’m not really sure where to start.”

“Allow me, then. Surely with our powers combined, we can assemble you a new wardrobe—aha! What about this one? The color suits you.” He plucks a fresh blouse from one of the high racks, holding it up next to you.

Much of the next hour passes similarly. You roam the aisles with your devout “helper” in tow. He plucks garment after garment—

“As much as I love it, I don’t think wearing a skirt that short is a good idea—”

—from the aisles—

“Haurchefant, I am not looking for swimwear.”

—And shelves. Some are genuinely helpful, while others…

“I am not shopping for lingerie today!” You finally lose your temper and scold him.

“Ah, so you will one day?” He falls into step next to you, your chosen garments rested across his arms. He refused to let you carry them yourself. “You must let me accompany you when the time comes ‘round. I know the most delightful boutique—”

“Please, just focus on what we’re doing now!” You rub your temples wearily and use it as an excuse to not look at him, taking the moment to try and cool down. Your cheeks are much too hot underneath his unyielding, devoted attention. Aren’t Ishgardians supposed to be rigid and uptight? You’ve long known about Haurchefant’s more… affectionate tendencies, but never can you pretend to be immune to them. 

“As my lovely lady wishes.” He heaves out a dramatic sigh and keeps his teasing to a minimum, resigned to his status as a practical coat rack. After grabbing a new bunch of socks, he accompanies you to the counter, stunning you with the absolutely swollen wallet he brings out.

He makes no attempt to be subtle about his wealth as he ferries you from store-to-store, purchasing everything from necessities like new shampoo to frivolous luxury candles and rose petal pastries.

“You really have money to burn, don’t you?” You eye the crepe he’s shoved into your hand incredulously, the pastry wrapping covered in sugar crystals and cinnamon, stacked high with fruits and cream.

“A man of my position and status would never lie about something so important,” he says with humorous firmness.

“I thought you might have been exaggerating.” You lean forward to take a heaping bite of the pastry. It’s just as rich and delicious as you expected.

“Me? Exaggerate? Impossible,” he declares.

The bags nestled in the crook of his arm bump against each other with each long step. It’s somewhat easier to ignore the prodding gazes of nosy passerby whilst locked in conversation with him.

“If you say so,” you shrug with a small smile, not bothering to bring up his tendency for ridiculous dramatics.

You’re barely given another moment to savor another bite of your pastry before your leg suddenly locks, the jostle of the sore muscle forcing a pained little cry from your chapped lips. Fuck, fuck! It was clear one of your wounds doesn’t agree with how much walking you’ve been doing. 

“What’s wrong!?” Haurchefant is looming over you in an instant, concern clear as day in his deep, blue eyes. One of his hands finds your shoulder, the other arm wrapping around your back to pull you close, away from the Crozier’s foot traffic. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”

“Just one of the cuts on my leg, I think,” you admit with a small sigh, before shooting him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. Really.” Weak, you realize. You’re still weak. The pain brewing in your body suddenly renews the heavy grief settled in your heart. You’re weak, too weak to even enjoy a shopping trip with one of your best friends.

“Perhaps it’s best we head home for the time being. I think our trip was quite successful!” He lightly shook a few of the bags on his arm as if to emphasize his point. 

“I’m fine,” you insist, lips curling in the beginnings of a soft frown. Perhaps it would be best to retire to the manor and get some rest, but… “We can keep shopping. You wanted to pick up some groceries, didn’t you?”

“That can wait, I assure you.” Haurchefant’s expression curls to match your own, mirroring your displeasure with a touch of worry. He doesn’t relinquish his grasp on you, lest you topple over the moment he let go. While you appreciate the concern, you can’t help but feel deep frustration boiling underneath your heated skin. “Urianger prescribed you the best painkillers Ishgard has to offer and extensive bedrest until you’re well on your way to being fully recovered.”

“I’ve been bed-resting for the past day and all this morning. I can last a trip to the grocery store,” you insist, voice growing more fervent. You may be injured, sure, but you’re also an adult who can make your own decisions! 

He says your name as an exasperated inhale, a hand perched on his hip.

“My dearest friend, I understand your pain and your frustration, but the more you rest, the faster you’ll recover.” Haurchefant’s voice slows and softens, any potential exasperation brewing on his expression melting away into the tranquil joy you’ve come to associate him with. “Please. Even if you insist that you’ll be fine, come home with me and rest for the sake of my own sanity. It worries me when you push yourself. Long have I been forced to watch you plow onto the battlefield, thrown against opponents no other mortal can face only for you to return injured.”

A sudden gust of wind wails through the area, slipping between the streets and alleyways to reach you. Yet, you hardly feel its effects, shielded by his steep body.

“When you came back from your victory against Shiva, I was so relieved… but also regretful. Regretful that I could not be by your side and help you.” The sudden onslaught of genuine tenderness completely throws you off your train of thought. The rage you feel dissolves in a near instant. A single, gloved hand comes to rest against your cheek, gaze impossibly tender.

He’s right. You know this. The more you rest, the fast you’ll recover. No matter how upset you are now, you can’t be illogical if you want to return to full health as quickly as possible.

“...Okay. Alright.” You shut your eyes and suck in a deep breath, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, attempting to soothe an upcoming headache. “Let’s go back.”

“Let’s go home,” Haurchefant corrects gently. His eyelids dip low, his smile sanguine and delighted at your easy compliance. His hold on you adjusts, an arm steady around your shoulder. By now, it felt natural to be attached at the hip to him, held close to his side. Close enough to feel his body warmth.

It does wonder to soothe your mental and physical aches. He continues to speak in quiet, gentle tones as he escorts you back to the manor, sheltering you from the frosty, curious gazes of the Ishgardian passerby. He smells nice, his clothes interwoven with the rich scent of mocha and freshly cleaned linen. It’s a familiarity you’re able to cling to and bury yourself in, a deep-seated comfort you can’t place a name to until you’re at the manor doors.

He smells like home.

\- - -

The veil of night settles over his skin like a soothing balm. 

This is the time of day where Estinien feels most at ease. It is the blessed dark that shrouded his draconic features, gave him more cover should the glamor that shielded him from prying eyes begin to falter.

It keeps him tucked away, as he pries open the one window Urianger leaves unlocked for him. 

The building’s interior does precious little to shield him from the cold. The small orbs of light that float freely around the room don’t carry any warmth with them.

No matter. He’s long grown used to the cold.

His greaves land heavy on the wooden floor. The boards creak underneath his each step as he makes his way to the door, sliding into the hall. He picks up on the book man’s scent within a mere few seconds, old books and rich spice.

He makes his way down the narrow hallway, retracing a path long grown familiar to him. 

It’s a new smell that causes him to pause and divert from his chosen path, grasping one of the doorknobs to tug it open. Blood, he realizes, blood and a familiar, rich scent that is uniquely yours. 

The globes of light, when combined with his enhanced vision, allow him to see as if it were day. His gaze falls upon a tousled bathrobe. He knows that bathrobe is too large for you. It is Urianger’s, yet you cling to it, yet—

Ah. He understands now. 

He exits and shuts the door, continuing towards his intended destination.

A ray of gentle, warm light slips through a crack in one of the doors. He curls his armored fingers around the door to pull it open. 

Urianger is hunched over his humorously large desk, long fingers wrapped around a long quill. He glances up, amber gaze softening at the sight of him.

Estinien doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the sympathy he is so freely afforded by this man. He is not a creature to be pitied.

“Good evening, my friend. ‘Tis good to see thee.” Urianger rests his quill and stands, looking him over. 

“Likewise,” Estinien grunts, more out of obligation than anything. 

“I imagine thou hast come with the intention of brevity in mind, as per usual.” Urianger wanders away from his desk and towards the door, towards Estinien.

Estinien steels himself at the approach, smothers the cacophony of singing, screaming voices that claws and rises at the back of his mind. Sparks of pain dance down his spine and he exhales, firm and long. He listens to the sound of Urianger’s footsteps across the floorboards, allows the noise to ground him.

“You had a guest,” he says as the man passes him. He practically feels Urianger stiffen beside him, the tendons and muscles tightening rigidly. The broad set of his shoulders grows stonelike with newfound tension, and Estinien can instantly tell he has hit a nerve. 

“I did. The Warrior of Light wast dropped into my waiting lap yestermorn. I was gifted with the pleasure of treating her,” Urianger informs him. 

“...Did you do more than treat her?” Estinien inquires. He knows this is not his business, knows he has no place prying into these affairs. But the sight of the astrologian hunched over your bloodied, battered form has been ingrained into the fine corners of his memory. It settles uneasily in his stomach.

“Of course not. My duties laid in administering care and that alone. Art thou casting doubt upon my good intentions?” The astrologian assured and inquired with an arch of his elegant brow. 

Ah. There are the melodramatics he’s come to know and expect.

“Of course not,” Estinien parrots, deadpan. “I was simply curious about why her scent clings so deeply to the robe in one of your guest rooms.”

“Thou… wandered into one of my guest quarters?” Urianger looks to him with a vaguely betrayed expression. His eyes have widened, blinking several times as though he cannot believe what Estinien just admitted.

“Her scent saturates the entire house, Urianger.” Estinien shrugs. “It is merely strongest in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“So in an attempt to satisfy thy curiosity, thou intruded—” His voice is getting faster, more agitated. Seldom does Estinien ever see or hear the bookman lose his temper, but he is coming dangerously close.

“Wasn’t it you who assured me that your home is my home? Or are you attempting to retract that claim?” Estinien raises an eyebrow. “Regardless, if it makes you uncomfortable to disclose such information, I shalln’t pry.”

“That would be best. As much as I appreciate thy companionship, I would enjoy it if thou did not pry into my personal affairs.” The tension did not dissipate from Urianger’s posture or his tone, but Estinien could feel him beginning to loosen up. Interesting. 

Someone who did not know Urianger as well as he might not even be able to tell how nervous he was. But hardly did anything escape Estinien. Not when his nose was so sharp, not when his ears were so open, not when his carnal instinct was akin to a flail and a mace.

Still, he lays underneath Urianger’s capable hands, receives hundreds of small needles pried into his aching muscles and head. Never would he have discovered how acupuncture benefits the symptoms of his condition without Urianger. For that, he will always be grateful.

He savors the gentle draw of Urianger’s fingertips across his shoulders and back and sides. Small strokes and touches that make stars dance behind his eyelids as he melts.

For an hour, he is not the Azure Dragoon. He is not the foolish child who fell into temptation and stole the Eye for himself. He is a mere elezen, a humble creature allowed through Eden’s gates.

When the treatment is done, he indulges in the way Urianger helps him off the table with a hand. His solitude has made him appreciate even the slightest of contact. He allows himself to drink in the feeling of humanity and compassion for a meager few moments, before his hand falls back to his side.

When he climbs out the window, he is a beast once again, seeing, smelling and hearing what he should never be privy to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have read, given kudo's and written comments. The views and feedback really help motivate me to make this story the best it can possibly be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been way too long. I apologize for the wait, guys. Trying to get my portfolio done took up most of my time after I posted the last chapter and it's been difficult to get started on this ever since. But at long last, it's done and it's here! 
> 
> If you're interested in reading other works that I don't post on ao3 such as headcanon lists or interested in supporting me elsewhere, feel free to peek at my tumblr: https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/

If Aymeric were to afford his late father one compliment, it would be his impeccable organizational skills. The perfection of each neat, abet packed drawer and cabinet makes it much easier to toss out items and documents he has no use for. He disposes of letters and paperwork and gauche items that only serve to take up space, skimming through texts and wrinkling his nose at every lie he sees. If nothing else, the archbishop kept his story straight, consistently assuring local leaders of his virtue and desires for a simple peace. 

Never does he betray his wretched greed, nor does he betray earthly desires, nor does he disclose the truth of his earthly relationships. 

“Never would I forsake my sacred oath for the sake of such petty indulgences,” one letter insists. Aymeric, without even processing it, reads it in his fathers voice and hears every lofty intonation, feels the faux passion oozing from every word. “The Scion of the de Borel family is not my flesh and blood.”

Aymeric’s lips curl into a deep frown, cold fingers tensed on the parchment. Another fruitless attempt to deny him of his true heritage, another desperate attempt for the archbishop to preserve his saintly image. Aymeric doesn’t know what’s more pitiful, the ceaselessness of his father’s denial or the fact that he had to interact with this man every day.

A loveless man, Aymeric thinks, crinkling the paper. There’s no reason to linger on a man long dead, not when he’s already resolved to be different, to be better. 

His brows pinch into a firm scowl, lips pursed in a deep frown. His tumultuous thoughts near split his head, every letter and possession an unfortunate reminder—

A knock breaks the stifling quiet and forces his spine rigid. As with every spontaneous visit he receives, he schools his demeanor into something friendly and relaxed, something unemotional and civil.

“Come in,” he calls mere moments later.

The tall, dark doors open. Zephirin’s form, adorned in rich blues and gleaming white, stands out stark against the darkened shadows of the hall. He cuts across the tiled floor, greaves clanking with each long step.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” Zephirin regards him with trademark impassiveness. “I have information of the utmost importance to share with you.”

The prompts Aymeric to raise a brow. Long has he worked aside the men of the Heavensward, but never has he grown confident in his abilities to read Zephirin. However, he has always been sure that his father kept an array of secrets, any of which could pose a threat to himself or Ishgard. Due to the recency of his ascension, he made the bold choice to not yet question any of the ward. He would attract more flies with honey than with vinegar. Giving them time to adjust, know and trust him would bear richer fruits than pressuring them to spill his father’s precious secrets. Perhaps that patience is finally paying off.

“You may speak,” Aymeric nods, fingers pressing the papers on the desk flat to the polished wood.

“My lord, I assume you are privy to the existence of the Ascians?” Zephirin’s inquiry nearly makes his brows raise, yet he keeps firm hold of his expression, a face of practiced, steady neutrality.

“I am.” Immortal creatures who were a source of strife to every nation and settlement, known for inflaming local beast tribes into summoning deadly primals. “Why, pray tell?” He wouldn’t put it past his father to break bread with some of the world’s most notorious troublemakers, and he knows better than to hope otherwise. 

The migraine blossoming behind his forehead thuds into the foreground. The very last thing Ishgard needs is pressure from another faction. Not whilst they’re in the middle of a transitional period. He knows that change must be introduced slowly for the people to accept it. He already has the Dravanians clawing at the wall every chance they get, and the alliance still knocks on the city’s gates semi-regularly. Aymeric is not an easily agitated man, yet there is only so much he can take before his hinges rust and his temper runs out.

“Before the Archbishop’s untimely death, they approached him offering an alliance,” Zephirin is watching him carefully, closely, measured in his words and demeanor. The timbre of his voice is neutral and passive. “He accepted with the intent of ascertaining their true goal and betraying them when his plans reached fruition. It is my full belief that he never intended to truly ally with them.”

Of course, Aymeric says to himself, Thordan would keep such a crucial secret from him. He wonders if the wretch he barely called a father is laughing at him from the hells below, for now he will surely be expected to continue this trite charade with the Ascians. It is likely that they will approach him openly, expect him to break bread with them despite their transgressions against the star as a whole. 

He fancies himself a man with a long fuse, but the sudden revelation makes his fingers curl. He leans forward with the weight of sudden news, flattening his hands against the desk.

“It is a pity he did not disclose the details of something so completely crucial to the future of our nation,” Aymeric takes in a deep breath and sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “The Ascians are not to be easily trifled with. Regardless of his ability to to predict and handle them, I should have been informed much, much earlier.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” Zephirin begins, the barest hint of apology seeping into his otherwise blank expression. “The Knights of the Round—”

“No. I am not in the mood to entertain trite excuses,” Aymeric replies, tone clipped as he restrains himself. There’s much he wants to say, but Zephirin needs not to be the target of his misplaced aggression. “Go. There is much that still has to be done before the day’s end. I will see to the Ascians this evening. Go about your normal duties until you are needed.” A newfound tension sweeps over his entire body and mind as he returns to the long road ahead. Perhaps some of his father’s files will shed some light on the situation.

\- - -

The morning descends upon you with firm vengeance. Though your wounds have for the most part aided by Ishgard’s finest astrologian, the aches and phantom pains still wrack you. The plush blankets that curl around your body make up a warm nest you never hope to leave. The mattress is soft and gentle on your back. Still, it is a comfort most difficult to enjoy whilst there is so much work to be done. 

Thus, you tumble out of your nest and barely catch yourself on your feet. Your morning routine is scarcely different from the one you had before your ejection from Ul’dah, yet the pain slows you. The cold claws settled within your muscles and bones make it difficult to move with your former swiftness. Climbing out of the shower is pure agony. Even though you’re inside, Ishgard’s vicious climate thwarts you at every turn. Only when you’re clothed are you at last at ease.

The Ishgardian garb is made of lush cottons that loosely swaddle you, easy on the body and meant to avoid aggravating your skin. Your hands duck into your sleeves, absentmindedly playing with the fabric as you descend the stairs.

Artoirel awaits you at the bottom, leaning casually against the banister. He sweeps out from his resting position with a smile at the sight of you, expression warm and welcoming. 

“Good morning,” he says. His posture is casual, but his gaze is searching as it rolls you up and down. Curious, explorative. “How are you?”

“Good morning.” You withdraw into yourself ever so slightly, doing your best not to wilt underneath his gaze. “I’m well.”

“Haurchefant is tending to his duties today, but I do hope I can measure up to him in the realm of being pleasant company. Would you grace me with your presence for today’s breakfast?”

And to that, you have no objections. Artoirel cuts an intimidating figure, physically, but his gentlemanly attitude softens his sharp features. He’s something you’d expect from a wealthy prospective suitor in a romance novel.

Breakfast is a wide array of Ishgard’s finest dishes—foods hearty and rich in nature. It’s a struggle to not scarf down your portions, but easy conversation with Artoirel helps you space out your bites.

It’s all pleasantries at first. He attempts to dive beneath who you are outside of your status as the Warrior of Light, asks about your skills and your hobbies, what you enjoy doing outside of slaying gods and monsters alike. He’s picture perfect. Even the bites he takes of his foot are petite and polite, not a crumb to be seen on the corners of his lips. His expression flexes, the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. He looks like he’s grasping for words, lips pursing as he stares down his remaining food.

“Have any of the nobility made a bad impression on you?” he asks out of the blue, a piece of bacon perched atop his fork. 

“No. Not yet, at least,” you look down at your potatoes, eyeing the way the chandelier light bounces off the silverware. It’s a surprising line of conversation to go down, but his concern touches you.

“Full glad am I to hear that. I would hate for any of my more… judgmental peers to sully your experience,” his voice is soft and delicate, a type of gentility that makes your heart squeeze. “However, I must encourage you to be cautious. Ishgardian high society can be… especially brutal to the few foreign guests we receive. Should you encounter any hostility, do not hesitate to inform me. I cannot guarantee any consequences for those in rival houses, but be assured that we at House Fortemps do not share the same sentiments.”

It’s reassuring to hear him so concerned with your reputation and well-being. You’re a new stranger to Ishgard, and there’s no doubt that everyone from the high borne to the lowly of the Brume can tell. Being thrust into such a foreign environment after what you endured has made you feel lost and overly dependent on your connections here. And… perhaps you are. But Artoirel’s devoted sentiments soothe you against your better judgment.

You don’t think much of it now, nor do you think much of it when you’re called down for lunch. Or dinner. It’s only right for the count to call all the residents and guests in his home for meals.

Emmanellain joins you for dinner that night. His eyes glint cleverly, his very presence incessant in its curiosity.

“To think, the champion of the ixal could be felled so succinctly!” he crows after you recount your deadly battle with Garuda. “Ah, I remember Haurchefant arriving home with stars in his eyes, that night. Word of your grand exploit was all he wished to speak of—well, besides your form… and the lovely curves that adorn said form.” 

Ah. Long have you been aware of Haurchefant’s growing… intrigue in you, but never has it been so plainly observed by another. How much had he said about you? Your cheeks warmed as you thought over the possibilities, distracted from the raise of Artoirel’s voice as he reprimands his brother.

Haurchefant doesn’t return. Artoirel helpfully informs you that he’s seeing to his very last post at Camp Dragonhead before he returns to fully join the Heavensward. His absence leaves you feeling emptier than usual. 

And when you cannot sleep, you occupy yourself with studying Ishgardian history. Much to your frustration, you can’t lift more than four of the tomes at once without your arms and shoulders screaming in protest, so you begrudgingly settle for three. You read throughout the night and find that the founding of the city state alone is enough to cover two-hundred or so pages.

A few hours before dawn, you dim the light and settle back against the pillows, filtering in and out of consciousness until you need to use the bathroom. 

You eat breakfast with Artoirel again that morning, and promptly decide you need to take a walk for your own sanity. Manor Fortemps is a splendous place to live, but you can only stand being cooped up for so long before you lose your mind. You make sure to throw on a scarf and some knitted gloves that had been fetched for you, all bundled up and equipped as diligently as possible against the merciless cold. 

Though you still don’t have a handle on the city’s layout, you believe asking for directions will serve you just fine. The manor is practically a landmark. Any local worth their salt should be able to point you in its direction. You assure yourself as you make your way towards the grand double doors.

“Oh, are you taking a walk?” Artoirel’s voice pipes up, the lord’s head peeking out from behind a nearby corner. 

“Yes. I just wanted to get some fresh air, is all,” you inform him with a small shrug. He steps fully into view, his gaze soft and his smile sweet as he regards you. 

“Ah, I was just about to head to the astrologicum. Would you care to accompany me?” He tilts his head ever so slightly as he inquires, leaving you struggling for an answer. On one hand, you likely should visit. If you weren’t mistaken, the man who treated your wounds is an astrologian. On the other… your entire stay in Ishgard has been a procession of well-meaning individuals constantly fretting about and crowding you. Even a moment outside alone would help combat the ceaseless, crushing sense of helplessness it has left you with.

Before you can even answer, Artoirel glances past you, gaze sparking with recognition as he spots one of the housekeepers.

“Ah! Adrienne, the Warrior of Light and I are about to take a visit to the astrologicum. Should Emmanellain return before us, kindly to tell him that the   
tarte tatin is to be shared. I will not have a repeat incident of last week.” His voice carries a firm edge to it at the end of his sentence, exasperation barely kept from breaching the surface. He shakes his head the housekeeper says an affirmative and scurries off, turning back to you with a sheepish smile. 

“My apologies. The last time our chef prepared tarte tatin, he sneaked in and pillaged the entire share before dinner even started,” Artoirel shook his head with a sigh. “At times, I can’t help but think Honoroit is more suited to his position than he is… but that’s nothing for you to worry about.” He dismisses the matter with a wave of his hand as he throws his coat over his shoulders. A shame. The nosier part of you wishes he had continued. It’s no secret that his younger brother is a divisive subject among the family due to his immaturity and habitual slacking off, but you’ve heard quite little of the boy who follows him around like a lost puppy.

“I have an acquaintance at the astrologicum who was hoping to meet you.” Artoirel, for the most part, seems genuinely oblivious to your internal monologue. He holds the door open like the truest of gentlemen and sticks close to your side as he swans elegantly down the street. Even his walk is refined, long legs sweeping nimbly over the concrete.

You try to keep your crestfallenness hidden as you follow, hoping Artoirel’s insistence is simply him overcompensating in an effort to be a good host. You’re in no shape to deny him at the moment—he’s the count, and he’s so graciously allowing you to stay in his home. Should he decide to shove you out the front gates, you’ll surely have nowhere to go. 

You don’t know how you haven’t realized the potential danger in that until now.

\- - -

You accompany him to the astrologicum to placate him. 

You try to take your leave after dinner, hoping he’ll be too busy finishing off dessert to notice you slinking towards the living room. He does, of course. And he continues to do so. Every attempt you make to leave on your own winds up inevitably thwarted underneath his watchful gaze. 

He accompanies you on walks, and you accompany him on small errands whenever he offers, figuring fresh air with him is better than none at all. 

“Foot traffic is high this time of day, especially after the archbishop mandated a longer break time for the construction workers down at the lower Ishgard. I dearly hope the noise has not kept you from your sleep.” Artoirel sighs as he accompanies you through the crowd, a palm flat to your lower back.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I cannot help notice that you have been favoring your right leg. Perhaps it would be a better idea to remain inside and rest? I imagine Urianger will be quite cross with Haurchefant and I if your recovery is hampered in any way.” Artoirel says imploringly, his eyes sweet and his lashes long as he bats them.

“We have a gazebo in the gardens if you would like somewhere to enjoy a spot of fresh air,” he informs you passively over the dinner table. “Not much grows out there these days, but it has been swept down and cleaned up for your use.”

It doesn’t reassure you. The next two days are fraught with uncertainty as you await Haurchefant’s return. Conversations with Alphinaud and Tataru are a brief reprieve from the blossoming paranoia, but you deign to not tell them the truth. There’s no doubt that Alphinaud will march straight to wherever Artoirel happens to be and demand answers. 

If this is all some massive understanding, you don’t want to risk jeopardizing your relationship with your host. You keep Artoirel’s suspicious insistence on keeping you cooped up a secret, even as the stress it invokes worsens your condition.

However, you are nothing if not resourceful. The balcony door to your room has remained unopened throughout your short stay. Exiting from the second level had been beyond your capabilities given your current status, but desperate times call for desperate measures. (And trapped creatures often make irrational decisions.)

Your muscles strain under the pressure of holding yourself up as you lower onto a conveniently close ledge, and then onto a trash can nestled against the brick wall. The loud rattle of the metal lid against the can makes you flinch, but the side street is blessedly empty. 

Just like that, you’re free. The phantom pains grip you tight and dig into your ilms of muscle, causing you to buckle. One of your hands finds purchase against the textured brick wall, gasps rattling in and out of your lungs as you struggle to steady yourself. Spikes of frigid pain lash out at your head, the space above your eyes throbbing as you attempt to reign it all in. Your thick gloves keep your nails from grating along the brick, something you find yourself suddenly grateful for as the pain begins to clear.

You focus simply on pulling the breath in and out of your lungs, the cold air drying your throat. The rest of the world dims as you refuse to focus on it, the agony ebbing away into blissful nothingness. Only then are you able to straighten up, gaze clear as you look down the long alleyway. Ishgard’s steep spires and long roads suddenly seem to curl around you, the prospect of navigating them alone somehow intimidating. 

Weeks ago, you would have been fine with exploring without a chaperone. 

You’re only going on a short walk, you rationalize. Your body moves accordingly as you urge it forward, heading out of the alleyway and onto the streets proper. Each step forward is another to be proud of, you try and tell yourself, but the words ring feeble and hollow in the void of your consciousness. 

\- - -

Estinien, for better or for worse, has grown accustomed to traveling near exclusively via rooftop. The streets below are littered with strangers who are able to perceive him. It’s daunting in ways he refuses to admit to. The stench of raw Ishgard rubs foul against his nose when he mingles among the masses, an affront to his sharpened senses. At least the beast inside of him knows it does not belong.

Powdery snow drifts from the grey sky, dotting his hoarfrost lashes, threatening to blur his vision as they nearly melt on impact. Here, legs perched upon the thin ledge of a building’s high spire, he can comfortably separate and spectate the writhing populace. Idle people-watching has become a disturbingly frequent indulgence in between his missions and tasks. 

It helps distract him from the red vines that curl around the tall buildings, from the patches of disembodied flesh that decorate the cobblestone ground. Features of Ishgard only he can see—the beast trying its hardest to convince him to leave.

Perhaps it is the human part of him that remains that enjoys this passtime, desperate for a vicarious taste of old normalcy. Of belonging. He despises it. He is no longer soft flesh and natural composition. He is hard edges and scales, branching horns and gnashing teeth all wrapped neatly under the illusion of humanity. If his glamor were to be dispelled, they would surely throw rocks and knives and weapons of every sort in his direction despite all he has done to protect them.

So he broods, and he is willing to admit that he broods. He consumes the crowd beneath him with wide sweeps of his piercing gaze.

An old woman hands over a coin purse in exchange for a pair of mittens. A child in the middle of a game of tag slips on a patch of ice, tumbling onto his knee. He hears the resulting yelp, despite his distance. The beginnings of warm, childhood nostalgia creep up on him. His jaw tightens as he prepares to beat it back—oh.

He notices someone decidedly different from the rest of the crowd. A figure that stands fulms and fulms apart, one he has seen before. The Warrior of Light. You look decidedly healthier than you had the last time he had laid eyes upon you, sheltered in the cloistered bookman’s keep. You had been crumpled by your injuries, a mess of an individual dragged in, hanging onto life by a mere thread.

You’re walking around, at the very least. Still a tad gaunt. The bags underneath your eyes are new, but he supposes you have plenty to lose sleep over after everything you have been through. He is no stranger to loss. He knows how it can rip a person’s core out, make them a shell of their former self. He sympathizes. 

He dismounts his perch, climbs across roofs and spires as he follows you along, glued to the shadows. No one regards him, his armor stained deep grey with the intent of better camouflaging him. 

There’s a noticeable stagger to your steps as you visit different merchants, not bothering to actually head inside any of the storefronts. Perhaps the cold is harsh on your injuries. Why, then, are you not inside? He imagines Haurchefant would be on you like a mother hen, though he recalls that the youngest Fortemps child has been sent to Camp Dragonhead for the next few days, overseeing the change of leadership.

A pity, then, that he is not able to stop you as you aimlessly float from stand to stand. With each moment your movements become more labored, more encumbered despite you having nothing on your person. It’s easy to follow you from his position so high above. Eventually, you split off from the crowd, your eyes wide and your arms drawn tightly to yourself. You stumble up the stone steps, across the street and into one of the thin alleyways, thoroughly closed off from the rest of the populace.

It is not sympathy or concern that makes him dismount his perch. The frozen air whips through his long locks and lashes at his eyes as he descends, body instinctively contorting to stick a perfect landing. 

It is a curiosity that plants him so firmly before her, a need to know the woman so vaunted and pursued for himself. You, who have so immediately commanded the adoration of Ishgard’s most coveted and quiet astrologian. 

You startle as he lands, the sound of the impact ricketing up and down the otherwise empty alley. 

\- - -

Fatigue jolts up and down your anguished limbs as you trudge through the crowd. Initially, it hadn’t been so bad. Sure, you had been a tad tired after your escape, but your condition quickly snowballed down the slope. Ishgard’s cold seeps into your body even though your thick, cushy clothes. Your capricious escape leaves you in a poor state by the time you reach the marketplace. 

Hells, you wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to exacerbate your wounds in the process. Still, you flutter from stand to stand, half-heartedly looking over merchants’ wares until the whimsy to move on strikes you. It helps distract from your new, pounding headache. 

One of the most appealing booths has little puppets that are hand-sewn. An array of cute, fuzzy characters is lined up atop the wooden table, alongside some plain stuffed animals. Had you actually brought your coin purse, you undoubtedly would have purchased something. One of the aforementioned plushes is a grey-pelted fox wearing a stone-faced expression, something about it reminding you of ser Aymeric. 

Unfortunately, the pain grows too great. Its bitter grip ensnares you, making your breath shorten and your body tremble as you continue your trek. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You should return home. To Manor Fortemps.

You split from the crowd, heading in the direction you believe is right. It’s difficult to keep your full mental faculties whilst so distracted, so you stumble down the alley and hope for the best. The dark brick walls make the path thin and constricting.

It’s by pure chance that you manage to see a flash of red above you before it lands. It’s a fluid blur of motion, a figure descending from the heavens that you don’t quite comprehend until it lands.

Brilliant plates of red armor wrap the broad figure’s body tight. The odd pikes that extend from its form and the angular nature of the sculpt let you know this is a dragoon, albeit unlike anyone you’ve ever seen before. The helmet is absent, allowing you to fully view the individual’s face. 

He possesses hardened, sharp features. A cut jawline and a nose with a high bridge. His eyes are narrow, irises a shade of icy blue. It’s the whites of his eyes that take you off guard—stained a deep crimson. Long strands of snowy hair frame his face and brush against his jawline. All things that catch your attention for a fraction of the moment, but what draws your alarm are the two, blackened horns that arch from his skull, curling backwards slightly, raised to the sky. His cheekbones are adorned with glimmering, black scales. They gleam red where the light catches off them. 

Sickly, red lines akin to veins scatter across either cheek from his eyes. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before.

You don’t see it as much as you feel it, waves of inky black void that roll off him like fog or flame. He is the picture of everything Ishgard fears all at once, the corruption of their own people by the dragons who have kept them in stalemate for hundreds of years.

Your breath stalls in your lungs, every muscle in your body seeming to tense as you struggle to comprehend his visage. Upon closer inspection, his form is absent of the gauntlets most dragoons wear. Another thick layer of scaling coats his arms from the elbows down, the tips of his fingers curling into sharp claws. 

“The Warrior of Light,” he addresses you contemplatively, but his expression belies disappointment. “I had not expected to see you out of your sickbed so soon—though it looks like you’ve flown the nest before you were ready.” 

“Who—what are you?” you stammer, coherency returning to you in staggered stages. You hunch against the cold, brick wall, eyes near the size of saucers as you stare him down. You don’t dare shift your gaze away from him.

The droll disappointment that colors his features vanishes, giving way into momentary surprise. One side of his mouth quirks into a crooked, shark-like smile. Even his teeth are refined into sharp points, better for ripping into flesh and chewing bone. He barks a cold, humorless laugh.

“So you can see me,” he remarks idly. The edges of your consciousness begin to burn and fray. The inky splotches that swim at the edges of your vision threaten the view you have of him. “You have truesight yet the first thing you see with it is this wretched form. I almost feel sorry for you. Aymeric was correct in his assumptions about you, though that’s for better or for worse,” he remarks as you feel yourself start to sway. Your hands grow numb. A slow tingle takes your fingertips and strokes down to your palms, sweeping to the rest of your arms. 

Any panic that you might feel is swept under the growing void, too exhausted to muster even a drop of emotion.

The last thing you hear before you take the plunge is the clanking of his greaves against the stone ground.


End file.
